When that Mockingbird Don't Sing
by Xx-Tori-Lucas-xX
Summary: Who do you turn to when your world comes crashing down, leaving you among wreckage and debris? What do you do when your dreams have slipped through your fingers? When that mockingbird don't sing, what is left to silence your cries? Huddy.
1. It Ends Tonight

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the a characters, nor do I claim to have any affiliation with the show "House" or it's production. This applies to the entire story and all that it entails.

Chapter 1: It Ends Tonight

The moon was an ominous slit hovering among the stars, the select few that were visible through the impenetrable crepuscule. Not a single sound threatened the eerie serenity, the inconceivable veil of sleep which was draped so carefully over the city as if God had placed it there himself. The darkness hung, seeping in through the blinds and engulfing the room, filling each of the corridors, bending at the corners and climbing the walls. The blackness lay thick between the carpet and the ceiling, and not a shadow dared to materialize. Outside, the blades of grass were bare, the dewdrops not yet formed upon them.

A figure wriggled beneath the sheets, but the silence abruptly returned. The sheets shifted again, and the figure awoke, blinking and gazing up at the ceiling, cringing. A wave of pain overtook her, flooding in swiftly and staggeringly. Her eyelids fell shut as wrinkles appeared within her forehead and at the bridge of her nose. It subsided, to her relief, and her eyes drifted shut again.

Another wave crashed to shore, this one submerging her and taking her for its own.

A cry was all she could manage, a cry so disruptive against the quiet midnight, so desultory to the world in its slumber.

A single, ear-splitting shriek. An agonizing scream.

A sudden awakening.

Tossing.

A panicked face appeared above her own.

Gasping.

His lips moved, creating words incomprehensible to her.

Tearing.

"Lisa!" He nearly yelled, "Answer me, Cuddy!"

Agony.

A dial tone. Dialing.

Hands grasped the sheets, her knuckles whitening.

"I need an ambulance!" The voice on the other end sounded like an imperceptible mumble.

A realization:

"My wife..." he paused,

Her legs were damp, and her hair was sprawled in a hundred different directions on her pillow.

He refused to say it, but is blatantly obvious. It did not take a diagnostician to comprehend what had just occurred, or what had begun to occur.

Sweat?

"Just get me an ambulance," he spat.

But she already knew.

"144 Fairway Drive," he uttered distractedly, watching helplessly as Cuddy's body convulsed beside him.

Tensing and then relaxing. Folding. Arching.

House's heart hammered against his ribs, and he strained his eyes to find Cuddy's silhouette through the darkness. He stopped responding to the voice emanating from the phone once the dispatching of an ambulance was confirmed.

Her fingers stretched, reached downward and grazed the puddle beneath her.

He slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

She choked back a sob.

"What happened? How bad is the pain?"

"Turn on the light," she commanded.

He sighed heavily, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "On a scale of 1 to 10," he questioned, repeating the question she had so often asked him and opting to ignore her demand.

"Turn on the light," she barked, and then grimaced.

This time, he did as he was told. Leaning over, he switched on the lamp. Before he could even glance over at her, his world was shaken by an earth shattering scream.


	2. Dark Blue

Chapter 2: Dark Blue

The world recognizes those who are successful, and in this, the accomplished are granted immortality. They dwell forever within history books, and their names are plastered in the media, on memorials, and even street signs. Their bodies are replicated, and crammed with precious metals, only to be varnished with a thick layer of gold. To some, to those who have yet to be consumed by the monster that is greed, fame is not what makes the world go round; rather, it is fulfilling their own goals that gives them true satisfaction.

In medicine, success is properly diagnosing, prescribing the appropriate medications, and recommending the most effective treatment. Success is performing a surgery well and doing that which is necessary to save lives. Success is being right.

Dr. Gregory House, world renowned diagnostician, could allot all of his achievements to being right, to accurately diagnosing his patient's conditions. Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, could do nearly the same. To earn her title alone, she spent years striving to gain the knowledge that would, one day, allow her to be prosperous in her career. Cuddy needed to be correct time and time again to pass her exams in medical school and to diagnose her own patients prior to her promotion to Dean. Both doctors, therefore, relished in the feeling, and the two often disputed to determine who was right, who would "win". On that night, they were both right, both making the correct diagnosis, as it was painfully visible. On that night, they both wanted so desperately to be wrong.

It was usually nightfall that brought monsters, that signified evil and all the terrors of the world. It is in darkness that the ghosts awaken and the earthly sinners run rampant. This time, it was the light that revealed the truth and all the dread that reality was about to carry with it.

Cuddy tore the sheets from atop her body as the lights flashed on.

That scream, a scream of bloody murder, rung out instantaneously. House could hear her shrieks echoing in his ears even after they had diminished, dissolving into low groans and sporadic shouts. His usual listless expression faltered and morphed into one of pure horror.

The next moments occurred so quickly, but they seemed so incredibly vivid. Looking back, they seemed like a distant memory to House; those crucial minutes were nothing more than a blur. He must have, at some point, hobbled to the front door to let in the paramedics. He remembered hearing the sirens outside, and then the men were at the door.

He directed them toward the bedroom, he assumed, and followed them up the stairs as quickly as his leg would carry him. He doesn't remember it though, it's just another assumption.

There was an image that stuck with him, a disturbing image that made him cringe internally, and cringe every time he thought back on it. He watched as they lifted Cuddy from the bed, her normally inviting, pallid legs dripping.

"1...2...3," the tallest of the medics counted, and the brunette's body was hoisted into the air by two men and placed on a stretcher.

"You were right," she kept repeating, as she wriggled on the stretcher.

The medics moved the stretcher through the doorframe, their pure white shirts a contrast to the deep beige walls. Each wore a golden insignia on his shirt, and of the four men, three of them were now dirty, clad in slimy, unsanitary shirts.

"You were right. This was a mistake," she gasped.

House followed directly behind. "Give her oxygen. Do I have to teach you how to do your job," he nagged. Nagging was, as always, the only way he could cope.

Cuddy's chest quaked, tears dancing down her cheeks. Her pupils were enormous, and her sapphire irises were almost imperceptible. With each second, she was losing color from the distress her body was forced to undergo.

"You were ri-," Cuddy cried out in agony, unable to finish.

There was no time to understand, or to analyze. There was just time to act. The pained look in her eyes was unbearable, and House intervened as they climbed into the ambulance, "Inject her with 10 milligrams of Leuprolide." The medics looked at him with perplexed faces.

House looked down at Cuddy, and grasped her hand, uncurling her fingers and holding them in his palm. When he glanced up the two men were still silent, motionless, "Right, because I'm obviously trying to kill the woman with uterine fibroid treatment," he spewed sarcastically, "I'm a doctor, and you two are idiots. Just give her the damn Leuprolide, Blondie." The blonde haired medic scowled, but lifted a syringe, piercing Cuddy's forearm and forcing a translucent fluid into her vein.

"House," she pleaded through the oxygen mask.

His face seemed stern, unwavering, but his eyes showed anguish. "Her pulse is racing," another medic called, his muscular arm extended and his fingers pressed against her neck. His shirt was streaked from lifting Cuddy from the bed just minutes before, and even his khaki pants were smeared with fluids.

"She's in pain, you moron," House retorted. "We're two minutes from the hospital, where real doctors can take care of you," he told Cuddy bitterly, though his remark was clearly directed towards the medics, who he was glowering at.

Outside the back window was emptiness, a vast black hole. The only lights were those of the ambulance itself, glowing red and then yellow. The brakes screeched as the car pulled toward the front of the hospital, and Cuddy lurched forward, nearly sitting up, parting her lips to cry out. Instead she gasped, and her eyes widened in shock of the sharp pain.

All she could hear was House's voice, muffled and distant, and then her own groans. Even they didn't seem as if they were truly coming from her. She seemed disconnected. From where she lay, it looked as if the scene was thick with fog, and all her body could register was hurt. Still, through the spasms, she could not decide what was worse: the physical torment or the mental.

House placed his hand behind her head, flattening her matted tendrils and guiding her back onto the stretcher. The doors were opened, and House squeezed Cuddy's hand as he limped through the halls. He could hear nothing, feel nothing, and all he could see was the woman he loved being pulled into the OR. He reacted like a doctor, appearing confident and experienced, but mentally, he could not have been in a worse condition. His life was turning upside down before his very eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it.


	3. Wonderwall

Chapter 3: Wonderwall

The room was so unfamiliar, like nothing House had ever seen before. Ironically enough, he had been in this very room thousands of times throughout his career at PPTH. He had glanced through the streaked glass windows at his patients; he had looked down upon them from the room just above. He would stand there, cane in hand, watching as the surgeons scurried below, poking and prodding at the unfortunate soul in the chair. Now, the room, and the entire hospital was foreign to him, an unforgiving, outlandish world.

In rushed the doctors, like ocean waves, each dressed in blue. Their hands were covered in latex gloves, and their mouthes were hidden behind masks. They were monsters, every one of them, mouthless figures with no emotion, no souls. They flooded the space, every one mumbling what seemed like another language. The room itself, though, was blindingly white, like heaven on Earth.

For the "patient" and her lover, it was hell on Earth.

Cuddy stared up at the surrounding faces, straining to fill her lungs. It seemed, no matter how large a breath she managed, that there was not enough air. The doctors were staring at one another, talking she guessed, but the majority of their conversations escaped her. Their voices all melded, becoming one incomprehensible murmur.

A surgeon with wiry glasses broke free from the crowd, straying from the group gathered around the medical instruments and walking to stand where Cuddy's waist was resting, now in the operating chair.

House hurried to the man's side, helping him pry the saturated sweatpants from her body. The legs on the woman House would usually call a "leggy brunette" were limp and gaunt. Her skin, that which was not smeared with blood, was ashen. Her body convulsed in the chair all the while, and it took three doctors to examine her, two of which were struggling to hold her legs in place.

"-tal abruption," was all that Cuddy could perceive.

"We need an anesthesiologist," one of the various doctors stated, but it went left unheard by the Dean of Medicine.

"You are an under-qualified idiot," House interrupted, stepping in front of the man who had spoken and forcing him backward with his cane.

The doctor in the glasses, which drifted slightly lower down the bridge of his nose, looked up at the "under-qualified idiot", "Anesthesia is too much of a risk at this point." His brown eyes flickered back down onto the patient. House, meanwhile, was too afflicted, at least internally, to follow up with another snide remark.

"Start the emer-," the man's voice was muted out temporarily by the overall chaos, "-ction."

Cuddy tried hopelessly to sit up, to comprehend what was happening, to distinguish at least a sentence of what the doctors were discussing. It was, after all, her life that they withheld in the palms of their hands. Somewhere within herself, despite the biting pain, she knew what was to follow. A glimmer of hope existed still, and it was that single inkling of hope that made Cuddy's pain somewhat more bearable.

House asserted himself past two more doctors, and grasped the bottom of Cuddy's shirt gingerly between his fingers. It was his t-shirt, he realized. Her delicate frame was lost in the v-neck. In the center was an intricate bronze design and the rest was off-white, or rather, it was off-white just an hour before, he thought to himself.

He lifted it from her taut abdomen and torso, and tucked it beneath her, revealing just enough skin for the doctors to continue. Cuddy's eyes were clouded by tears, and she looked, in that moment, the most vulnerable that House had ever seen her. She was more fragile than a raindrop, plummeting to Earth from the skies, destined to splatter on contact with the pavement. House's eyes, the color of glaciers in the dead of winter, bore through her.

"If anything ha-," she started, her speech delayed by her need to breathe, "happens, I w-"

This time it was House who cut in, "Dont worry, I'm supervising. I'll make sure none of these imbeciles try to kill you so they can take steal your job. If anybody's replacing you I'm making sure it's a curvy blonde with a wild side."

Cuddy's lips curled upward at the corners for a fraction of a second, forming the slightest smile before the pain wiped her face clear of any trace of happiness. "I love you," she mouthed to him, her eyelids like weights as she forced them open. He nodded in response, his heart blockaded by a brick wall, as his precious dynamiter lay wearily in front of him.

"Scalpel."

He was screaming on the inside; he could hardly resist the urge to shout aloud, curse the fates, and denounce whichever Gods inflicted this pain upon her. He did none of this.

He decided instead on brushing a stray curl from in front of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.

"Mark the location."

"Which tri-," the sentence faded to mumbles.

"Beginning of the last, it looks like. Give me 15 centimeters."

House listened intently, and nodded toward them, confirming their estimations to be true.

"Making the incision, keep the scissors on hand."

Cuddy leaned into his touch, and then yelped, her lip quivering. Blood surged from the area of the incision, and House, noticing Cuddy growing paler, pressed his hand to her forehead. "She's lost too much blood. Give her a-," his words blended with those of one of the other doctor's, "-ne milligrams."

The light beating down from above frustrated her already bloodshot eyes and hindered her vision. The picture before her was swaying, as if to lull her into a deep sleep. Left. Right. Left. Right. She let her eyes fall shut, but she could not control the vertigo-like sensation. "Keep your eyes open. You've got to stay awake," House commanded sternly. He knew that if she succumbed to the darkness, to the temptation of sleep, she might loosen her grip and let her life slip away. Cuddy bobbed her head, acknowledging his statement, knowing it was for her own good. It took every ounce of strength she had to do so. She bit down hard on her lip as if to wake herself and awaken her mind. She was still a doctor, and her medical knowledge was an enormous asset to her in a moment like this. All she had to do was be awake and aware.

"Scissors."

There was a snipping sound that nearly caused House to gag. He was clearly not squeamish, as an MD he couldn't afford to be. This sensitivity was unfamiliar, and luckily, temporary. He would realize later that the nausea came about solely because of the patient, the patient who, coincidentally, was the person that mattered most to him. As he oversaw the procedure, he glanced up at her, amazed by her strength and vitality. She proved that in just remaining conscious. He never doubted Cuddy's tenacity, she put up with him, after all, and she combatted him well. Most of the time, it was as if they were on an even playing field, even in a battle of wits.

The irony was, and had always been, that he claimed to like the clueless blondes and gravitated toward the senseless, thin brunettes. All he really wanted was Cuddy, intelligence and all.

"Cut the c-," the surgeon wearing spectacles grasped the scissors. House turned his head so quickly he might have given himself whiplash. Seeing the sudden change in his demeanor, Cuddy looked from side to side, her own expression becoming one of panic.

The doctor prodding around on Cuddy's insides had wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and skin that had clearly deteriorated over the years. "Get the nasa-," he was muted out, "eaner, and prepare an oxy-," a noise muffled his words, "-bator." Everything became suddenly silent, and there was another snipping sound. With that the doctors began moving again, quicker than before, racing around. Everything, at that moment, hung in the balance.


	4. We Are Torn

Chapter 4: We Are (Torn)

Authors Note: What do you all think so far? Are you on the edge of your seats yet? I'd like to thank you all for the amazing reviews! I have never written fan fictions before, and I hope that I have not disappointed. I did not anticipate response to this story, considering it is my first, but if readers are enjoying it, I will unquestionably continue. I've considered slowing the time that I update, as to not overload you all too. So, if I have already done so, I apologize and hope you enjoy the chapter.

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Before that night, that life altering night, House and Cuddy had managed find balance. By no means was every aspect of their lives balanced, but in the grand scheme of things, no one's lives are completely stable. In a moment, any moment, anything can change.

Every 7 seconds somebody, somewhere on the planet, will die. Who's to say in a matter of moments you won't be the next to die and become a mere number in a statistic? Then where is the balance in your life? At that point, life has already been pulled out from underneath you. To counter the previous statistic, every 7 seconds, somewhere on the Earth, a child is born. In this, there is balance. There is a system, or as some believe, a greater power that regulates the balance of life and death. The scales are at perfect equilibrium.

In terms of the doctors, the rugged diagnostician and the alluring Dean of Medicine, they had struggled for years to attain harmony. In fact, their numerous trials had always ended the same: in one side of the scale weightless and the other bearing all the burden. There was no in between. There was the offended, the one who had been stabbed, at the bottom. At the other end of the spectrum, on top, was the one holding the knife. The next time, the tables would be turned, and the situation would be reversed, mirrored. Either way, neither, no matter their position on their endless teeter totter, could achieve fulfillment.

To find a happy medium was not easy work for the unlikely pair, for they had to fail time and time again to discern their attachment to one another. It was an irrevocable bond that linked them, and nothing could sever the ties that connected their damaged souls. It was almost an epiphany from which Cuddy realized that House was the man that she loved unconditionally and unalterably. Her desire for him extended far past the average definition of desire; it was a need. Sure, she could find a replacement. She was desirable and quick-witted with a steady career and a promising future. Men swooned in her presence, and because of this, they were not a challenge. They weren't House.

House was his own worst enemy when it came to his relationship with Lisa Cuddy. She was, for several years of his life, the only woman he saw. Technically, he saw plenty of other women; he dated them, slept with them, and then chased them away. Unlike the others, he cared to really see her for who she was. He knew her every expression. He knew her secrets, her dreams, and even the brand of shampoo that she used. There was familiarity with her, but never boredom. She was capable of keeping him on his toes. House, a man who loved puzzles and analyzation, could never fully understand the enigma that enigma that was Cuddy. She was complex, unlike any other woman on the face of the Earth, and she was the woman that was worth the fight. She was his counterpart, just as stubborn as he, and that made her his challenge.

After both faced the inevitable fact that they were forever bound to one another, everything seemed to fall into place. They were meant to be together all along, it seemed, as they learned to coexist.

Their world was balanced, but any moment, anything can change. Life sabotaged the pair, throwing them a change-up after they had just become accustom to curve balls. Was this a pitch that they were equipped to hit, or was this their third and final strike?

After the last of the cuts had been made, a weight was lifted from the frail woman's body. House averted his gaze to the nurse carrying an inanimate gray being in his hands. His eyes spoke of different emotions, acting as the passageway to his soul.

The color flowed from his cheeks, and his chest felt as if there were a weight precariously perched upon it. Like Cuddy, the air had been knocked from his lungs, but he refused to acknowledge the sinking feeling in the depths of his stomach. He was torn, for a few moments, between following the nurses and staying beside Cuddy.

He glanced down at her and then towards the doctors in the corner of the room that were shuffling around with various tools in thieir hands. Finally, making his choice, he peered into Cuddy's glossy blue orbs, as if the other sight were insignificant. Every ounce of his attention was focused on the woman lying helplessly on the operating table.

With the most gentle touch he could manage, he smoothed back her hair, entangling his fingers in her unkempt curls. She blinked away her tears, knowing that the simple gesture was his way of communicating that he was there for her. And for that, she was thankful. Lifting her arm, and placing her palm on his face, she caressed his cheek with her thumb. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, but he melted against her touch, like icicles beneath the blistering sun. Despite the circumstances, her presence, and especially her determination, seemed to be comfort enough. She blinked dazedly, her fingers tickled by the stubble on his chin.

House turned to place a soft kiss on her palm, and then took her hand in his own, feeling her arm shaking against him. She looked at him appreciatively, and laced her fingers through his.

"Stitch her up," announced the older doctor, tearing off his cap to reveal a head of wiry, gray hair. He walked off, internally patting himself on the back.

"Cocky bastard," House said to himself, watching the too proud doctor walk off from his peripheral vision.

Cuddy almost sighed in relief, hearing the surgeon, but with his statement, she regained her sense. She was awoken from her perpetual dreamlike state and became quickly reacclimated with reality.

Dr. Schultz, or so his name tag read, had threaded the first of the stitches through Cuddy's abdomen. Cuddy would, and rightfully should have winced, but adrenaline was coursing through her veins, overtaking her.

With an abrupt flare of energy, her arms flung upward instinctively, reaching outwards to the doctors. House watched the display, knowing what she wanted. He surveyed the adjacent corner of the room, unable to see past the mass of nurses.

There were no frantic cries or defenseless whines.

Coming to this grievous discovery, Cuddy had to restrain herself from supplying them.

Her shoulders bucked up and down heavily as her breathing picked up, her heart beating like the wings of a dragonfly. Systole then diastole.

The next stitch was sewn into her stomach. Dr. Schultz gripped the needle tightly between his thumb and forefinger, sealing the patient's abdomen shut and periodically using gauze to wipe away the blood. The gash was magnificent, and the doctor's eyes showed remorse. The woman, who he did eventually recognize as Dr. Lisa Cuddy, had a petite frame. Her hips were those of a woman, but her curves were hardly existent. Her skin was stretched tightly over her ribs, and prior to this, the surgeon guessed that she had a striking physique.

Now, she had a line of 15 cm running across her abdomen, a crack in the once flawless field of skin. The patient wriggled, flailing her arms, as of responding to the painful thought in the surgeon's mind.

Thump, thump. Her heart pounded rhythmically, like the ticking of a clock.

Dr. Schultz looked up from his work, figuring Cuddy was in pain, remembering that she was not under anesthesia, "Can I get a hand," he requested to no one in particular. Two men nodded simultaneously, holding Cuddy's legs to the chair.

"House," she called to him, panic stricken. The mental agony was significantly worse than the physical, she decided in that moment.

Trying to feign detachment, House responded, "You have to relax. They're almost done." But he knew that her stitches weren't the reason for her outburst. He coiled his fingers around the mahogany handle of his cane until his knuckles were white and his palm was considerably irritated. Then he uncoiled them again.

"Where's the baby," she was trembling, her voice traveling upward to the next octave. Her trachea burned from the lack of moisture, and she nearly choked at each attempt to speak.

House peered at her blankly, while his head stirred with thought and his stomach churned. "Sit back," he ordered, in a tone short but somehow deep.

"Where is my baby," she asked, louder this time, in an administrative tone. Her blood, however much was left, was boiling. She felt voiceless, though her words came out as clear as daylight. She annunciated beautifully, as beautifully as a woman in her scenario possibly could, yet nobody dared to answer. The world dissolved before her as she noticed her estrangement, forced into an alternate universe, a nightmare.

The men surrounding her stared, their mouths tightly shut behind their surgical masks. Cuddy, as a last resort, sat completely and utterly still. She remained this way for nearly a minute. The doctors had reached the eye of the storm, but once the momentary lull passed, the storm would hit again, its original wrath renewed. As if by magic, she conjured the energy to sit herself up.

An unexpected gust of wind whirled through.

She bent at the waist, temporarily ignorant to the pain which rippled through her abdomen and flowed out through every nerve ending in her body.

Thump, thump.

Cuddy glimpsed over toward the cluster of nurses standing at the other side of the OR before being pulled downward and restrained.

Tearing.

There were hands on her, some crushing her, others placed more as a precaution.

Pain.

Bleeding.

The crimson liquid began oozing again, seeping from the slice and crawling down her midsection.

Thump, thump.

House barked toward the other doctors, "Stitch her again. She can't afford to lose more blood."

"Dr. Cuddy," Dr. Schultz called to her loudly, "We have to sew you up."

"Go," House yelled, "Do your jobs." The doctors leapt upward in response, everyone searching for a way to contribute.

"Where is my baby," she pleaded, almost inaudibly. "Greg," her eyes were narrowed forlornly. It was then that her feet began to tingle, like they had fallen asleep.

Thump, thump.

The sleepiness climbed upward through her calves and thighs. She was approaching dreamland at a pace too rapid to control. The monster had taken her within his greedy hands, licking his lips as each inch of her body fell victim to the temptation. She felt so unbelievably cold.

Her fingers felt frostbitten, chomped at by the winter winds and the bitter flakes of the first snowfall. Then her arms were gone too, detached from her body floating away into an oblivion.

Thump.

Her neck fell away.

Thump.

Then, there was nothing but sleep.


	5. Song for the Lonely

Author's Note: Thank you all again for your continuous support. This chapter is slightly slower than the others have been. Its introduction consists of a lot of biological terms, so I apologize if anyone finds it unenjoyable because of that. On that note, I wrote based upon my memory, so if anyone finds that some of the facts are incorrect, feel free to correct me. Thank you for the feedback! I'll continue this story for as long as you all would like.

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Chapter 5: Song for the Lonely

It is natural for the heart rate to increase when a human, or most any creature, feels threatened. Whether it be a threat to their lives, the lives of the ones they love, or even to their pride, feeling fear will lead the heart to quicken its pace. Fear is a similar sensation to oxygen deprivation. Likewise, when the feeling has dissipated, the heart rate will return to its normal pace, reverting back to the natural balance, the circadian rhythms of the body with the help of the pineal gland.

The moments of trepidation themselves are most easily explained from a biological standpoint, from the perspective of a doctor. Of course, everyone has been in a scary situation, but such a sensation is almost indescribable. Emotions and their definitions are simply not enough to characterize such vivid and horrifying experiences, no matter the writer or the traumatic occurrence. It is an adrenal response, involving the brain, hormones, glands, and even the heart.

Sauntering on the precipice, Lisa Cuddy's bpm had risen to an unnatural level when her mind was spontaneously flooded with unnerving ideas. The adrenal response commenced, perhaps even against her own will.

She was internally on the brink of insanity, and the winds were urging her further towards the side of the cliff. Looking down, there were miles sprawled between she and the ground. If she relinquished her control, the pressures would undeniably force her over the edge. And she was, admittedly, dangerously close to doing just that.

The hypothalamus is a primary contributor in this fight or flight response, and essentially, the physical response. The hypothalamus is nothing more than a fraction of the brain, but it is the location from which panic, will commence. It is the first in a line of dominoes, standing fixedly in a row that weaves and stretches further than the eye can perceive. When the first domino tips over, and the hypothalamus releases corticotropin-releasing hormone, all succeeding dominoes will drop, taking with it another. They collapse upon one another, each landing with a clamor as it hits the next. None are silent.

The next domino is the pituitary gland, a gland not too distant from the brain stem, as it lies just beside it. It rests opposite of the cerebellum, at the very back of the head, which is associated with coordination. Without this fraction of the brain, there is no walking, or standing. Sure, it seems like a vital portion of the most complex of human organs, which, in itself, is composed of primarily water, but the cerebellum is easily put to shame by the brain stem. The brain stem, more specifically the upper region called the pons, and the medulla, the lower region, is responsible for respiration.

Yes, respiration is controlled by the lungs as they expand and then contract with each and every breath. That much is common knowledge, but the brain stem bridges the brain and the lower organs, as it delivers the chemical and electrical signals that influence the respiratory system. Humans breathe in the air from the atmosphere, and this air, a small percentage of which is actually oxygen, travels down the trachea. The trachea branches into bronchi, from which the common ailment known as bronchitis stems. Smaller and more complex still the system will become as the bronchi become bronchioles, and then alveoli.

After a long and tiresome path such as that, the oxygen transfer will occur, but not in any of the previously listed locations. The capillary beds are the sole place of gas exchange, allowing the oxygen a pathway into the blood. Eventually the entire process of breathing is sped up when a certain domino is surpassed.

After the pituitary gland produces ACTH in response to the previous hormone release (CRH), the adrenal glands are involved. Interestingly enough, these glands are just above the kidneys, and so the entire body is not-so-slowly involved in the responding to anxiety. The adrenal glands excrete cortisol which helps to cope with stress. These levels fluctuate, and with the increase in cortisol, there is a decrease in ACTH. With nervousness, the palms might sweat as the heart and respiratory rates quicken. The body might quake, as its inhabitant loses all control.

After pints upon pints of blood had seeped from her body, Cuddy was severely deprived of oxygen. When the fear kicked in and her most mortifying nightmares came suddenly to life, her search for air became more frantic. Most importantly, though, she needed to see her baby, needed to hear its cry. Almost anyone would have said her priorities were vastly out of order, but her baby, whom she had yet to meet, was already her main priority. The adrenalin was an asset, granting her a single attempt to sit up and find her baby lying somewhere within the crowd of doctors who seemed worlds away from her.

She couldn't even steal a glance before being forced downwards into the chair. There was absolutely no air anymore, and as her body went limp, she flew from the cliff, spiraling down to Earth. There was a moment of catharsis, a single moment of freedom as she fell from the skies. Then, there was nothing but she and the ground.

Darkness.

"Cuddy," House saw the tension run from her body, and she fell to a heap against the operating table. Her eyes were no longer fluttering. They were intently shut even as he cupped her cheek within his palm. Against the warmth of his hand, Cuddy was cool and clammy, the pigmentation in her skin suddenly gone. There were minute beads of sweat lingering on her forehead, and he swiped them away with his thumb.

"She hasn't stopped bleeding," Dr. Schultz said pointedly, three stitches away from sealing the gap completely.

Looking up with wide eyes, House answered sarcastically, "Thank you, Einstein. It's no wonder you became a doctor." The other doctor met his gaze, narrowing his eyes challengingly. House not so surprisingly refused to back down, and glared at him, his cerulean eyes piercing through the surgeon. Dr. Schultz finally turned away, resuming his work and pulling the scissors from the table beside him. He clipped the excess string from Cuddy's abdomen, then placed the scissors down again, a single beam of lighting glinting off of them.

"Get her to a room," he told them, disposing of his gloves.

House followed behind, the ache in his thigh rippling up through his body, reaching even his fingertips. He clenched his teeth together, keeping pace with the doctors that were rushing Cuddy from the blindingly sterile operating into a new room in the intensive care unit. The doctors trudged through the glass doors, and past various patients who were walking aimlessly through the corridors. They stared at the pale woman on the stretcher, and then grimaced empathetically. Unable to bear their gazes, House focused his stare elsewhere. Likewise, he tried focusing his thoughts elsewhere, but was, to his dismay, unsuccessful.

"Give her 4 milligrams of coagulants," one of the younger doctors ordered, prying off his surgical mask and cap to reveal his platinum blonde locks. His nose jutted far in front of the rest of his face, and his chin was prominent, strong.

"You probably should have paid attention in med school," House spat, his cane clicking against the floor with every forward step. "Give her seven milligrams," his voice was booming, overpowering all the inconsequential blather, "We actually want the meds to work, you know," he remarked toward the doctor.

The female doctor, whose hair cascaded down her back in waves, attached Cuddy to a heart monitor. The infrared lines diagrammed her heart rate. They jumped up and then fell across the screen, rising and falling. Rising and falling. "Heart rate's at 60," her nasally utterance made the diagnostician visibly flinch. At the same time, each of the doctors was relieved that her heart rate was fairly normal.

Dr. Schultz was the first to take further initiative, grabbing a needle and poking at the crook at the inside of Cuddy's arm. After impatiently searching for a vein, he forced the needle through her raw skin. He missed the vein completely, and then withdrew, relocating the indistinct blue vessel and plunging the needle in again.

"Her heart rate's declining," the woman announced confusedly, crinkling her nose, "She's at 58." House and Schultz both turned to face the monitor. "Fifty six now," the brunette corrected. The heart monitor started screeching when she reached fifty five, wailing in intervals of three consecutive beeps. House had heard this noise tens of thousands of times, but for some reason, it went through him. His expression remained the same, emotionless, but it was far from the truth. He was hidden behind layers, like an onion, and his center was inaccessible to onlookers. No, he was more intricate than an onion. The psychoanalyst-like diagnostician was an origami crane, a sheet of paper folded repeatedly in every direction and folded in on itself. Only those with skilled hands could pull apart the regal bird without tearing its wings.

"Her adrenal response stopped," the diagnostician clarified, the other doctors turning to him, confused.

"Fifty three."

Dr. Merino, yet another surgeon hovering in Cuddy's room, turned from Dr. Freedman with whom he was previously conversing. "She's going into cardiac arrest," he watched the monitor, listening to its raging cries for a moment before calling out.

"Not yet," House replied determinedly, "Inject her with Isuprel."

Almost frantically, Dr. Merino yelled, "Just put her on a respirator," gesturing his hands all the while. His eyes were a seemingly transparent hazel aside from the opaque brown flecks which resembled freckles.

Each of the doctors looked to House, which only served to boost his perpetually swollen ego. "Isuprel" he repeated, "Go!" The incessant beeping howled on as the number fell, reaching as low as 39 beats per minute.

House's well of patience had completely run dry, and he could tolerate no more of their stupidity, not when Cuddy's life was at stake. He injected her with the medication, a considerable amount in the hopes that her body was not so far unaccustomed to life that she would not be able to recoup. "Come on, Cuddy," he said, leaning heavily on his cane as he would have when watching one of his patients undergoing the treatment that he and his team were currently trying. This time he was treating his boss and the woman he loved. His finger were, metaphorically, crossed.

When the monitor read "30", true panic set in, coming over the room like the first snowfall of winter, coating each and every entity. Meanwhile, the Isuprel entered her system, surging through the blood until it reached its destination. When it did, the muscle jumped, then jumped again more quickly.

"Thirty four," the woman sighed, peeling the surgical mask from in front of her nose. "Forty," she announced, and when the number escalated to 55, climbing tirelessly like an escalator, there was silence.

Then, there was a collective sigh. "She's stable," Dr. Schultz reasoned, the muscles in his arms visibly relaxing.

"Out," House declared toward no one in particular, the exhaustion audible and his tone not nearly carrying as much strength as he intended. The group left just the same, granting House the opportunity to strip the remnants of Cuddy's clothes from her body and replace them with a hospital gown.

The weary-eyed diagnostician hobbled to the chair resting in front of the window. The blinds were the color of coffee cream, just like the walls, and the chair was firm with a wooden frame and unforgiving maroon cushions. Still, he collapsed into it as if it were a cloud. After a sleepless night, and a horrendous hospital experience, sitting in itself was a reprieve.

Cuddy drifted far from life, into a world of her own, trapped within her skin and the caverns of her skeleton. Her mind had overloaded, overwhelming her body, and the only way to calm the afflicted and halt the insanity was for the body to shut itself down, closing like a seashell. She was still alive because of House. He tore open the clam with his bare hands.

Staring emptily into space, House let his mind wander, but too many thoughts ricocheted around the inside of his skull. He didn't know the whereabouts of his child, but he had a pretty good guess.

He shook his head, thrusting the thought from his mind. Then arose another thought, providing as a distraction and peaking his interest. "You were right," Cuddy had told him over and over again that night. What exactly was he right about, he wondered, wary of the answer.

"Goodnight, Cuddy," he murmured, putting all his concerns to rest. After several hours and assuring himself that she was actually stable, he stepped from the room. Leading with his cane, he walked intently down the halls and welcomed another reality.


	6. Small Bump

Chapter 6: Small Bump

Guilt is the feeling which causes people to apologize, which drives people to do good to make up for their sins, to punish themselves for crimes that weigh upon their consciences. Guilt is a relentless emotion. It can arise even when it is unwarranted and torture those who feel it. It can stem from the slightest mistakes, or the greatest. It can move mountains and it can kill. It can do good, or evoke more guilt. It can procreate or eliminate itself. Either way, once you have caught the disease, you have to bite the bullet and suck out the poison drop by dreary drop.

"Greg," Cuddy croaked, her voice hoarse. She sounded as if her throat was abused, like sand paper had been ground against it. Beneath each of her eyes was a patch of gray, like she hadn't slept in days, and the rest of her skin was pale, colorless. She looked ghostly, her limbs frail and her figure a powdery white. Her hair was matted and unkempt, and her curls were gradually unwinding as the moments drew on.

The tubes cascading from her arms were like waterfalls, flowing into the machine at her bedside. Dangling from the top of the machine was a bag, half full with transparent fluids. It streamed into one of the various tubes that ran into her arm and infused with her blood.

House's head turned at the sound of her voice, although it was nearly unrecognizable. He glanced toward her, clearly disturbed by what he saw: her gaunt frame and effete expression. Even her usually vibrant blue eyes seemed to have faded to gray. From where he stood, gray and white were the only shades left in his entire world. His speechlessness evoked a sigh in Cuddy, who was looking longingly toward him through half-lidded eyes. Knowing it was his cue, he stood from the chair he had slept in, ignorant to the pain in his thigh. His cane, worn as it was, lay perched against the wall as he walked toward her. It went forgotten, ignored, like an orphaned child deemed unimportant by his/her parents.

Cuddy's expression was a mixture of confusion and astonishment, which made House look from side to side questioningly. It was only when the tired-eyed diagnostician came to stand beside her, leaning on the bed for support, that he realized he neglected to take his cane. He shrugged his shoulders, feeling the soreness in his upper body for the first time, "I have more important things to worry about."

She awarded him with one of the loving looks from her arsenal, the one that showed appreciation, affection, and sorrow all at once. Her mouth formed a sort of frown, but the tilt of her head and glisten in her eyes was enough to convey her love. She had plenty of those looks, the ones that spoke of so many feelings, but she needed not say a word. Not with House. He could read her better than anyone else ever could. Granted even the most enigmatic people were fairly easy for House to read, Cuddy couldn't fathom someone knowing her in and out, understanding her every gesture.

From House's perspective, analyzing Lisa Cuddy was strenuous, but the fascination that accompanied it made the effort worth his while. She was like no other. Sure, on some level she was a woman, looking for love, but hoping with every fiber of her being to find true love, pure and fairy tale-esque, like every other female on the planet. Sometimes, he was dead on in his accusations when they argued. He attributed that to his practiced skills, but also to a fair amount of luck. Other times, he found his conjectures to be off. Stunned as he acted, he knew that his subject was convoluted. Her intelligence only added to this. It made her aware, and even led her to learn a few things about analyzation herself. She knew how to communicate what she was feeling, which, some people struggle with, but she also knew how to mask her feelings. She used this tactic for persuasion, but also as a facade when she was hurt.

Even with her most complex and indistinguishable mask, Cuddy could not completely keep her feelings from House. He saw through it, and she didn't understand that. Neither she nor he saw that his emotional connection with her gave him the extra incite. The same factor worked in her favor when she tried deciphering House, slowly peeling back the layers. It was their connection, their love.

"What happened," she asked, bringing her hand to rest on the bedrail, her ability to move her arm hindered by the IV. She looked down at the crook of her arm hatefully, and she had to consciously refrain from rolling her eyes. Unwilling to answer, or not knowing where to start, he wasn't sure which one really, he deflected.

"How are you feeling," he asked, almost uncomfortably, concern not in his general repertoire. It wasn't a bitter question because it was obvious that he cared, more obvious than he would have liked to be, but he was slightly detached from it, from everything. To compensate for his lack of verbal expression, he took her hand, visibly shifting his weight to his other leg. He stroked each of her fingers with thumb so tenderly as if she were a butterfly, fragile and helpless.

Her shoulders rose and fell and her lips curved downward contemplatively, "I've been better. When all the meds wear off I'll definitely be in more pain than I am now. And I'm sure I look awful," she joked.

"You've never looked better," he answered seriously, bringing his gaze upward to stare into her eyes, trying to instill in her the slightest bit of confidence.

"I don't know if that was a compliment or an insult," she deadpanned. After what seemed like hours of silence, Cuddy opened her mouth to speak again, "House," she addressed him to get his full attention, then paused, "What happened?"

He shifted his weight again, trying to alleviate the throbbing in his leg. Noticing this for the second time, Cuddy patted the bed, suggesting that he sit beside her. He looked at her incredulously, but when she pleaded, not aloud, but with her eyes, he complied.

He sat down in the open space on the bed, which there was much of considering Cuddy's size. "Placental abruption," he answered, staring up at the ceiling and nearly choking on his words, "Then a C-section during which you totally sabotaged your doctors. Maybe I really am rubbing off on you," the sarcasm was thick in his voice and his pitch hitched up.

"I've watched you piss people off all these years I thought I'd try it myself," she retorted.

He let out a quick breath, not a sigh, nor was it a laugh. It was out of acknowledgment, and then there was emptiness again, a hollow human being and the woman he loved. Based on the irony of that statement, even the common man could discern that he must not have been so hollow after all. "Where's th-," he shushed her, eliminating the distance between them, scooting closer while trying not to shift the bed too much. Though she wasn't in excruciating pain at the moment, she might be later, and he didn't want to risk adding to it.

She looked up at him, searching, trying to see through him. Unable to glimpse into his eyes, as his chin was tilted too far up, she asked again, her voice quavering. He massaged his thigh rhythmically, then stopped suddenly with a sigh, "I'm sorry, Lisa."

At first, she nodded her head, swallowing hard as if literally swallowing the news. It morphed to a bolus in her mouth with the help of salivary amylase, and then it traveled down her esophagus through peristalsis, measured contractions. Finally it reached her stomach, where it landed heavily and she was be forced to digest it.

Cuddy was disciplined in every form of the word. She found comfort in control and enjoyed having the upperhand, but even stronger than her need for power was her hatred of deviation. She wasn't House; her feelings weren't suppressed to the extent that they would haunt her and gradually consume her from the inside out. Furthermore, she didn't use drugs and alcohol to numb the feelings. When there was too much to handle, too many feelings and thoughts, she muted it out, like those with selective hearing and how they simply turn a deaf ear to the world.

There were thoughts in her mind that made her want so terribly to die, gut-wrenching thoughts that tore at her insides and made her queasy. Then, there was anger. Why would God make her suffer? What had she done that made her deserving of this fate? No parent should have to bury their child.

There was more anger, in different shades and forms. She was infuriated with herself. She should have been more careful, Cuddy told herself. Deep down, the logical thoughts spoke otherwise. The seconds drew on, but her train of thought travelled at an unbelievable pace. Within 45 seconds, she was in a battle with herself. Her right foot versus the left; intellect against "will"; logic opposing passion.

_It's all my fault._

_It could have happened to anyone. _

_But it happened to me. _

_That doesn't necessarily mean it's my fault._

_But the likelihood that it was is significantly greater... with my age and, my age and my body's incapability of carrying a child for so many years._

_"Come on Lisa, you're a doctor. Dean of Medicine now," she reminded herself, "You know the facts, the figures. You've spent years learning them."_

_House was right. I was wrong._

_I didn't have a chance to prove him I was right, and I wanted that chance. I put in months of work to get that chance._

_Then I lost the baby within a matter of hours._

_It just wasn't meant to be._

_What if it was, but I didn't fight hard enough? My effort wasn't enough._

_When will it be enough? When can I have what I've always wanted?_

_Maybe I'm not meant to be happy._

_God, I can't possibly be acting so ridiculous. _

With this thought, she came out of her trance. House, after noticing her response, or lack thereof, looked toward her, afraid she might implode. "Cuddy," he touched her arm. She turned away, facing the other direction, shaking her head all the while. She laid her hand flat atop her stomach, her fingertips grazing the material on her hospital gown. Instead of the familiar small bump that had been there just the night before and for months before that, there was nothing. A plateau replaced the firm hill that had once existed there, but had deflated overnight. It was smooth and still, except for a single disturbance, a deep crack in the Earth. It had been repaired, but the string which sewed the seams was rough. When she touched the stitches, she stifled a cry, cringing from the pain but also the reality it welcomed. Then, there were tears.

She wasn't pathetic, nor did she seek pity. She hated pity, hated the thought of others looking down at her. She hated the thought of telling her family that she had lost the baby, and the sympathetic expressions they would give her, the chipper "we're here for you" statements and the meaningless apologies. The thought of failure accompanied all of the above. She had failed, after all, and that was something she couldn't take. She failed herself, she failed House, but most of all, she failed her child. Just a few months into motherhood, if carrying a child can even be called motherhood, she had already failed. She felt like she made an irreparable mistake, and she wished that she could go back to the night before and do it over, put more effort, try harder. What she didn't realize was that she had tried her hardest, even defied the odds. In this hysteria, though, she could not feel proud or accomplished, just remorseful.

House felt similar sentiments himself, way deep down beyond the layers and layers of emotional protection, his bulletproof armor and titanium vest. As a diagnostician, his failure was in losing someone, the death of a patient. This time was the worst, even though it was a baby. "Just a baby," he thought to himself, wincing at the words his mind had strung together. It was more than "just a baby". He'd lost a select few patients over the years, adults and children with lives, with experiences and memories. This child had none of that, but still this failure was the hardest. He couldn't save his own son.

Cuddy envisioned herself holding him, his eyes murky, as he would barely be able to see. The sound of his cries, though she hadn't even heard them, seemed to echo inside her head, taunting her. She wanted to feel him coil his hand around her pointer finger, to kiss his swollen cheeks and play with his toes. In her imagination, he would have House's hair rather than her own, and he would grow up with a sense of humor like House, incomparable self-sufficiency, like herself, and with intelligence like both his parents. By the time he was thirteen he would be as tall as her, but he would be gentle and respectful. She fantasized about her life with a baby, then a child, and far later a teenager, for the longest time. Now, she wouldn't even get to live it.

House's mind wandered into their home where there were a pair of tiny shoes in pristine condition on their dresser. Julia had dropped them off just the day before. They would never be used.

Cuddy sobbed quietly to herself, burying her head in her hands, her face reddening. The ashen tint on her skin had temporarily faded away, and the tears served to humanize her even more, removing her from her spirit-like state. House, out of his element, pulled her closer, holding her against him. She nuzzled her face in his neck, soaking his t-shirt, the fabric covering his shoulder dark with the physical manifestations of her sadness. Seeing Cuddy, a vision of strength, so completely vulnerable made House anxious, as if the world was going to end. He was already clueless as to how to act, how to feel, but this was culture shock. He had to let her react, even if it was watching her cry. He had to let her feel and let the storm pass, just as Cuddy did for him when she helped him detox. It would be agonizing for him to watch her suffer, but there was nothing he could do. Not a thing he or anyone else could offer would fix this.

After an eternity, when her sobs seemed to die out, he whispered to her, "Cuddy" She didn't look up, didn't make a noise. He let his words float off, fall away.

"Maybe there really isn't a God," she breathed, her tone nasally from congestion, "Guess you were right about that too."

House let out a deep breath. For the second time in two days, he hated being right. He knew what was going on, knew the baby was dying, but he hoped to be wrong. There was an aggravated undertone in Cuddy's statement, though. She was insinuating that he was not only right about there being no God, but something else too. Something that she was silently seething over.

_"You were right," she kept repeating, as she wriggled on the stretcher._

_The medics moved the stretcher through the doorframe, their pure white shirts a contrast to the deep beige walls. Each wore a golden insignia on his shirt, and of the four men, three of them were now dirty, clad in slimy, unsanitary shirts._

_"You were right. This was a mistake," she gasped._

_House followed directly behind. "Give her oxygen. Do I have to teach you how to do your job," he nagged. Nagging was, as always, the only way he could cope._

_Cuddy's chest quaked, tears dancing down her cheeks. Her pupils were enormous, and her sapphire irises were almost imperceptible. With each second, she was losing color from the distress her body was forced to undergo._

_"You were ri-," Cuddy cried out in agony, unable to finish._

Questioning her would be useless. Even if she answered because of mental instability, or just pure carelessness, it wouldn't be Cuddy telling him. It would be this ghost, and he wouldn't pry for an explanation while she was at her weakest. In this case, adding insult to injury would not only be unkind, but immoral.

"You've never doubted this almighty God of yours before," he answered.

She stared blankly at nothing in particular, "He's never taken a child from me before. Not like this, not so close," she let he words linger for emphasis.

"So you still believe in God, you're saying he's a murderer," he pointed out, evaluating her statements and doing as he did best. For some reason, he didn't want her to lose faith in God because of this. He wanted her to keep her faith, keep something she's always believed in. He had nothing stable like a God or father figure, and he wasn't spiteful enough to want Cuddy to lose hers too.

"Not a murderer," she clarified to both herself and House, "just unfair."

"We both know life isn't fair," he drawled robotically, staring at the dots on the ceiling.

She bobbed her head slightly, "This is torture. I," she stuttered to correct herself, "we were so close."

"Close but no cigar," he replied emotionlessly.

Her eyes were inflamed, from both her tears and the stress of the prior night. House guessed she's probably bursted a few capillaries trying to strain herself. "You're mad at me," she accused, leaving no room for argument. Her voice was high and gritty.

"For what," he asked, dumbfounded, taken back by her sudden change in demeanor.

She pressed her eyes together, feeling her body tense and immediately ache from the movement, "I can't stand myself right now," she rested her thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose in frustration, her eyelids shutting firmly, "why would you feel any different?"

"Because of your ass," he asked with a mock tone of sympathy. She looked at him, unamused, "Looking in a mirror at that humongous ass of yours must be a torture every day," he kidded, both aware of his admiration for her ass. She half-smiled, half wanted to hit him for his perverseness. "You don't nearly like your ass as much as I do because it's yours. You can appreciate because it just weighs you down. I just get to stare at it when you're not paying attention, and sometimes I even get to touch it. I can't be mad at you because you don't appreciate that you have an ass too big for your body." She shook her head at his comment, then gave him a stern look.

He explained, "You've got some sort of hostility with me, but I'm letting it simmer because I like you mad. Angers a good aphrodisiac" he said with a smirk, "gets you feisty." She rolled her eyes, exaggerating the motion to her greatest ability. "House," she conjured her best administrative tone.

He continued, "You haven't said a word to piss me off yet. You're stuck in your head. Don't worry, happens to the best of us," he added with a wink, referring to himself, "On the plus side you haven't made any bitchy statements out loud yet. You should argue to yourself more often." She let his statement register, determining he didn't understand.

"I killed our baby," she said blatantly, looking slightly green.

"You didn't kill him, Cuddy," he looked to her, trying to show her truth in all the lies flying through her mind, "He was a stillborn. It happens."

She laughed, which made House fidget in his seat, "He died because of me." She pounded the mattress beneath her, "God dammit." It was meant to be a yell. Instead, her voice cracked and became a squeak, leading into a whimper, "He's gone."

House nodded, letting out a breath, "I know he is."

"I loved him," she admitted, her face chapped and tear streaked.

"I know," House answered, his heart already in pieces, "I know." He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that that would make it okay, but he said no more. Her arm fell over his waist when sleep finally found her. When her breathing evened out, and he was sure she was in a distant world away from reality, he pulled her against him, letting his head rest right beside hers so he could hear the sound of her breathing. He hoped that while she slept God would alleviate her burden, soothe her guilty conscience. If not, he would. The sound of her breathing lulled him to sleep, and he prayed when he awoke the ear-splitting sound of death would be gone.


	7. Your Love is my Drug

Author's Note: I'm sorry that the last chapter was so devastating. Did I make anyone cry? After reading your reviews I tried to figure a way I could keep the baby alive, but I couldn't. My plotline was already going in a different direction. Sorry, everyone! This chapter is slightly slower, but leads to more important things, so I'm not just giving you all fluff. I promise. I appreciate you all so much. I'm hoping for a better following because I haven't received too many reviews, but if you do want me to continue, I'll definitely do so. Thank you all so much. My readers make writing worth while.

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Chapter 7: Your Love is my Drug

Have you ever wished the world would just disappear? That everyone would just vanish into mid-air so you could indulge in the emptiness? Have you ever wanted to get away from it all? To pick up and go leaving all the bad behind to start anew? Were you ever so embarrassed that you wished you were dead, that you might just fade away and forget it all? Have you been so ashamed of yourself that you wanted to shun the world, or even be shunned because you felt like you deserved it? You know that feeling where you've done something so terrible, like broken your mom's favorite vase, or snuck out of the house, and didn't get caught? That feeling of guilt, or the way that you almost want to be reprimanded, and practically beg for a punishment. Did you ever want to just give up? Give up on your family, on your friends, and on life? Life has a cruel tendency to tantalize, to make people overcome the agony it brings while still luring them in hope and faith. Right when you're at the edge, at your absolute breaking point, the sun arises far off on the horizon. It provides temporary relief from the horror, from the hailstorms and earthshaking thunder. In life, there's always just enough good to keep you fighting, floating atop the waves with a refusal to drown.

There are the small windows of light that make the hours of darkness seem worthwhile. There are emotions so sweet and indescribable that they are addictive. They motivate you to fend off those weeks of evil just to get that small fix of happiness, however minuscule it may be. There's the feeling of relief, compassion, understanding, and then there's love. When you find your counterpart, the eternal battle doesn't seem as daunting anymore because you've met a warrior to fight beside you. And when you want to be alone to bask in the solitude, your perpetual aloneness, you still want that person to be by your side. You never want to be truly alone again, nor would you be. If everyone else in the world perished, it wouldn't matter because you have that single person that means more to you than life itself.

You might fight. You might be at each other's throats sometimes. You might drive your car into their dining room out of frustration, or force them away because they've relapsed. Sometimes you might make each other cry, or irritate each other to the point that you're screaming at the top of your lungs. There may be door slamming and hateful statements, some meaningless and others painfully true. The profanities might sully both your ears, and if it gets heated enough, there might be a threat. Not just any threat, but the ultimate: the threat to leave.

Other times, there's adoration, sweet like honey, and sticky too. Those memories often latch to the heart and reside there forever. There's those hugs that are so tight you think your lungs might explode. There's the hugs given in times of sadness, where you could fall into one another. When you're broken and your heart has been torn from your chest, there's that hug where they are the only thing keeping you from hitting the ground. You know that if he or she wasn't there, you would have easily crumbled. What's even harder than those times are the days when you have to hold them, to not only support yourself but both of you. This is a responsibility you accept with grace because you want nothing more than to heal their wounds. There's the small kisses on your forehead and the breathtaking ones that make you melt. There's watching movies with your head resting on their chest, and the times when you're laughing together and don't even know why. There's the little glimpses and the moments of comfortable silence. There's the bigger moments: your first date, your weekend trips and the awkward family dinners. And when life gets unfair and breathing in itself is agony, you have that person to help you to your feet.

"Want a bite" House mumbled through a full mouth. He offered his reuben, holding it out to her.

She glanced at the sandwich with a look that displayed nothing short of repulsion, "No," she broke off, "thanks." House shrugged his shoulders, tearing a chunk from it with his incisors. His cheeks were painted with the sauce which drenched the foil wrapper and his fingertips. He wiped his mouth with his forearm, rubbing the sauce into his skin and tinting his unshaven brown stubble auburn.

Folding her arms, Cuddy turned her head, staring out the window. There was a haze enveloping the building, and the only sight the window provided was of the adjacent wall of the hospital. The brick was the color of clay, dull and worn, and the sun had hidden away, afraid to face Cuddy's wrath.

Her hair had perked up and recoiled since a few nights before before, but still it fell flat of its usual sprightliness. "Eat this," he insisted, his words just barely comprehensible with all the food in his mouth. He placed the hospital tray on her lap, its hideous green tone a dramatic divergence from the surrounding grays.

She ushered the tray away, forcing it further down her lap. "The salad's not that bad," he said exaggeratedly. He continued, "and that's saying a lot. You know I hate healthy, leafy things." She didn't respond, deciding to focus on one of the stratus clouds ghosting slowly through the sky. "Okay, okay," he rambled, surrendering, "You can have some of the cake." He shifted the tray to rest on her lap again, poking the fork in through the slice of cake. It was devils food, both his and Cuddy's preference, and it was coated in a thick layer of chocolate frosting. It looked rich and moist, and a few stray crumbs littered the plate beneath it.

"Since when are you so generous with your food," she asked toward the window, uninterested.

House leaned back in his chair, "Someone sounds spiteful," he jeered in his usual austere manner. "I wouldn't say I'm being generous, just less of a greedy bastard."

She nodded, taking in a long breath. "It's chocolate," he waved it in front of her face. For a middle-aged man he could act like a complete child when he tried. He figured boyish charm might better persuade her.

"That's enough, House."

"You haven't eaten in days."

Cuddy directed her gaze towards him, giving a look of weariness. The inflammation beneath her eyes had yet to wear away, and her eyelids drooped. She was annoyed with House's insistency, but most predominantly, she was crestfallen. Using all the strength in his arms, he drove himself from the near backbreaking chair. He took the tray from Cuddy's lap, placing it on the side table beside her in case by some outside chance she changed her mind.

House sat pensively, thinking and analyzing, remembering and recounting. Cuddy tried turning her back to him so she could look more easily at the raindrops racing down the window. She twisted herself cautiously, but flinched immediately when she overextended her torso. Her body involuntarily withdrew, her abs tensing and forcing her into a hunched position. "Ow," she yelped, then grunted. House jumped in his seat, which didn't go unnoticed by Cuddy. She could hear him shifting in his chair, feel him moving beside her. She rolled her eyes at her own pathetic behavior. She didn't need grief from House either, but his genuine concern touched her as well.

"Is tearing stitches going to be a regular thing for you," he asked feigning curiosity, while still being audaciously sarcastic. She scowled back at him at first until he drew nearer. With one hand, he supported her back. He slipped the other underneath her knees and lifted her, keeping her suspended for a half second, just high enough so that he could move her. After turning her body for her, he set her delicately atop the mattress. Then, he adjusted the pillows behind her back, pulling away once he finished, pretending his act was meaningless. It seemed so insignificant, but unbearably sweet; it was a small, but breathtaking act of love. When their eyes met again, he saw a soft look on her face. It was her look of appreciation, and that simple look gave him peace of mind.

Before he could distance himself and assume his seat again, she stroked the hairs on his chin with her thumb, and then moved her hand to rest at the back of his neck. She half-smiled, showing the first semblance of happiness House had seen from her in days. He could feel the pressure on his neck, her feeble attempt to pull him closer. He obliged, joining their lips and closing his eyes to experience instant gratification. What amazed him most was how her lips were still so soft, so welcoming even after days of unrest. She tasted sweet, just as she smelled. Her scent was so familiar to him, embedded in his brain. It was like spring, the newly bloomed flowers with the saccharine aroma of sugar and warmth. It was subtle and sophisticated, but also sweet and flirty.

When she pulled back, forcing his lips from hers, he rejoined the world, as he had been too consumed by Cuddy to retain any sense of his surroundings. She cupped his cheek in her hand, looking up apologetically. No matter the hospital gown and the look of sleeplessness that had washed over her, she was still the most beautiful woman House had laid eyes on.

He pulled his chair closer the bed, resting his forearm beside hers. They could yell at each other, get under each other's skin, and then share a kiss just moments later. It was their system, the thing that kept them balanced.

"Dr. Cuddy," a tall man in a lab coat trudged in the room, his polished black shoes making faint, but still considerably obnoxious noises against the floor, "Dr. House." He nodded his head toward them. His skin held a purple tint under the fluorescent lights, and his hair, darker than Cuddy's deep brown locks, was long, dangling over his forehead.

"Dr. Barge-right-in," House shot back snidely. The doctor squinted at him, but let the comment slip.

He clicked his blue ballpoint pen with his thumb, "I need a moment alone with Dr. Cuddy," he told House nonchalantly, refusing to look him in the eyes as if he were medusa.

"Go ahead," the diagnostician put his feet up on the bed, laying further back in his chair, "talk away."

"I need a moment alone with the patient," he glanced up from the page he was purposelessly staring at, "Seeing as you aren't the patient or family to her, you can't be here."

"I'm guessing you wouldn't believe me if I told you we were married," he asked rhetorically. The man averted his gaze downwards as he flipped through pages, evaluating Cuddy's file. "That's not what is says here," he answered seriously, slightly perturbed by House's unique sense of humor.

"Guy on the ambulance fell for it," he shrugged and placed his finger to his lips, adding a "shh."

Cuddy watched the interaction, slightly amused. Of course being the hospital administrator, she hid it behind an expression of irritation. She had developed an impeccable poker face. "Whatever it is," she told the other doctor, shaking her head, "you might as well just say it now. House is just going to figure it out in an hour or so."

"Who's to say I don't already know," House added slyly, tapping on his head.

Dr. Reese, which his name tag read, ignored their comments completely, "I need your consent on whether or not to autopsy the infant's body." He handed Cuddy the Manila folder. The lighter, less grave tone was quickly replaced by tension. House sighed to himself, knowing that this would be another step backward. He and Cuddy had progressed slightly in the past couple of days, however little it was, it was improvement. One step in reverse. There was a sharp pain in her heart, as the dispassionate doctor rubbed salt against her wound. She tensed, glancing at the forms in her hand, "I need a minute," she stated with confidence, and Dr. Reese stepped out.

"Sign the paper and check the little box so we can get rid of him," House told her, pointing out to where Dr. Reese had fled. "I'm guessing we're on the same page," House assumed out loud, looking to Cuddy who held the papers. He couldn't help but notice that her breathing had quickened. Were they on the same page?

* * *

Anyone confused? I bet you all fell for House's lie too. As you probably expected, I ended on one of my infamous cliffhangers. What do you think? Are they on the same page?

Another note: If you prefer I not include author's notes because you find them distracting or pointless, please let me know. I'm always grateful for your feedback.


	8. New Divide

Author's Note: Thanks for the amazing reviews! I'm so happy my story has a following, and I appreciate all of the feedback I get. I loved reading your predictions as well, and one of you even read my mind. Why would they need to autopsy when they know the cause? I'm glad you caught that because it's all explained here. So what do you think? Are they going to do it? Without further adieu, here's chapter 8.

* * *

Chapter 8: New Divide

It seemed that the world truly had fallen away. They shut out everyone, everything, until there was nothing but heartache and two severely screwed up people. Nothing mattered but the two of them.

Cuddy, administrator of the hospital, had yet to fulfill any of her obligations. It was understandable with the circumstances, and she was sure the news of her stillbirth was circulating by now. After all, she was currently a patient at PPTH. Her own employees were the doctors that operated on her, and the nurses that tended to her needs were all women she had interviewed and hired herself. They were all the people that she carefully selected to work at "her hospital." It would have been some sort of miracle if the entire staff wasn't already aware of what happened. This was a thought she tried to ignore, though, and although she could have made an effort to keep the news from spreading, it would have been futile. She'd have to tell the closer of her employees eventually.

House's team, who he completely neglected, were most likely solving cases on their own. They could fend for themselves for a while, not that House cared anyway. Not now. Foreman had probably taken his place. He was the next best thing, House thought to himself, but Foreman would never be him, not from a medical standpoint. Cameron was probably sympathizing for whichever patient she was caring for, throwing her passion into her work. She had an awful tendency of getting too emotionally attached to the cases that she dealt with. Chase was probably stupidly suggesting a diagnosis. He would believe wholeheartedly in his theory until a better suggestion came along. He was always skeptical, but his doubt made him a great doctor.

Then, there was Wilson. A friend to both the doctors, the oncologist had probably heard the news and tried to call, but neither House nor Cuddy cared to contact anybody. They were in a world of their own, without phones and work, without responsibility and schedules. It was no paradise, not while mourning, but it was exactly what they needed.

They needed an escape from the work hours, clinc duty, patients, and family, to just be. No doubt, it was an experience neither would forget, but isolation was somehow helping them cope.

It would only be another two days until Cuddy would be dispatched, and they would both be back to work a mere day after that. Until then, it was only them, for the only people they could bear were one another. It was comfortable, familiar. Even when they fought, they knew there was love beneath, a subliminal sense of affection. There was contentment and a lack of judgment, and neither was looking forward to the judgment of the outside world.

"Yeah, of course," Cuddy affirmed in a voice high and raspy, yet still somehow sultry. She sighed, her eyes scanning the consent form, and House noticeably let his shoulders ease back into place. "It would be," her words slowed as she fought the urge to sigh, "idiotic to not have an autopsy done to hi-," she trailed off, not completely willing to acknowledge her baby as a him. It made him seem more real, and allowing him to become a distant dream was the only thing alleviating her heartache.

She sighed at the thought of her baby, lying there with his fingers and toes curls, his skin whiter than snow. It sent a chill up her spine and she had to consciously force the image away. It made her relive the pain all over again.

"Why the hell would we do an autopsy," House's face contorted in anger, his forehead sporting wrinkles. He sat up from his reclined position to look at Cuddy who was startled by his outburst.

She, clearly aroused from her state of lethargy, snapped back, "Because it's what _I_ want."

"Is that all you've got," he asked, staring at her both angrily and disappointedly, "Because you want to?"

"That's all I've got," she retorted with a shrug. Although to the average person it would sound as if Cuddy was trying to avoid conflict, it wasn't the case. Between she and House, such a response was even more of a challenge.

He scoffed, "You're not happy until everything is the way _you_ like it, until everything is perfect. But doing an autopsy isn't going to fix this. There's nothing you can do about it."

"And you're never happy until you've solved the puzzle, even if you have to nearly kill someone in the process," she looked deranged, "Why is this any different?"

"This isn't a case, Cuddy. There's nothing to prove!" House was trying to appeal to her logic, hoping she still had some after everything she'd been through. "This isn't a mystery. He's dead! Dead! And we know why!"

She forced her eyelids shut, the word "dead" ringing in her ears over and over again. She faced the window, her head pounding from holding in the tears that were pleading to fall. "I just want this, House," she spoke toward the wall.

"Does everything have to be about you?" She made no attempt to answer, because she had no argument. At least she wanted him to think that she didn't. He narrowed his eyes, analyzing at first, but gave up his game and continued, "I'm not succumbing to you're stupidity, and if you're not going to back down, this isn't going to end well."

"It never does," she rubbed her temples, looking at him again, her hair falling in front of her face.

He pulled his cane from its spot against the wall, twirling it with his fingers, "You're doing this out of guilt," he assessed. "You feel guilty that he died because _you_ had a complication and now you're trying to make up for it."

"And how would an autopsy make up for it," she shot back, trying to disprove his theory.

"Because you're hoping to find something. You don't want it to be your fault that you have to bury your own kid," he answered, realizing exactly what a bite his words had only after he said them.

She felt the warmth rushing to her face and her eyes brimming with tears. It was her stubbornness that kept them from falling. She was incredibly strong, and even House couldn't understand exactly how she had such power. "It's not your fault," he said with abnormal genuineness. "For some reason I feel like we had this talk already," he said tilting his head upward, "Deja Vu?"

"Just because you keep saying it isn't my fault doesn't mean that's the truth."

House laughed, and Cuddy glared back at him, "Because I'm the kind of guy who lies to spare your feelings." She sighed, knowing he was right. He never did care to make others feel better, but the pang of guilt weighing on her heart was swelling into an unbearable mass. Even rational thinking didn't seem to make sense anymore.

"Then do it as a precaution," her face lit up with an epiphany. House narrowed his eyes, gauging her determination. It was agitating, but it was one of the many things he loved about her.

"A precaution for what," he asked derogatorily, "Maybe they'll discover that he's not really dead!" He faked enthusiasm, "Maybe if they do an autopsy they'll realize he's still breathing!"

She stared at him hatefully, his words effecting her more deeply than he could ever know. "What if they find something," she asked, and he stared at her questioningly. "Something genetic," she suggested as a doctor, her medical knowledge serving to support her. Both she and House could see that it was so much more than a medical diagnosis, though. Finding another possible cause of death could let her off the hook, or at least her conscience.

"It wouldn't matter," he waved his arms, "He's not coming back."

Every time he spoke, another piece of her shield crumbled. Soon enough, she would be defenseless to the bullets he fired towards her. "For the next time," she explained, "I don't want to come this far again just to figure out there's genetic problems, or any other complication that could make this," she gestured toward the room, "happen again."

"What the hell do you mean next time," he yelled. The heart monitor was beeping wildly, and her face was redder than it had ever been before. "There is no "next time"."

She looked up at him with saddened eyes, her brows furrowed and her lips in a firm line. "Sign the goddam papers and get the kid autopsied for your own selfish reasons, but there is not going to be a next time."

"That's not your decision, House," her stern, administrative voice kicked in.

The blues of his eyes nearly blinded her, "Well it sure as hell shouldn't be yours," he shrugged his shoulders as he stood from his seat with his cane. He limped toward the door, looking back over his shoulder.

"And you think you're qualified to decide our future," she questioned.

He shook is head at her, looking at her as if she were a kid, "It doesn't matter what I think." He opened the door, stepping half way through it to stand in the doorframe, "But I'm not letting a next time happen. Go beg another guy to be your sperm donor."

"Maybe I will," she responded childishly, just for the sake of rebelling.

"Don't you think you've lost enough of your dignity," he slammed the door behind him, traipsing down the halls, leading with his cane embellished with flames at the bottom. Those same flames were ablaze in his eyes.

Cuddy, lying in her hospital bed, was at war. She was fighting herself, trying to find her sense again. She must have left her rationality somewhere far behind, and she could tell her judgment was clouded. Her entire view was distorted. Was she crazy for wanting an autopsy?

She checked one of the boxes and scribbled her signature.

Was she crazy for wanting a next time?

She shut her eyes, and let her exhaustion carry her into her dreams.

* * *

Author's Note: Which box did she check? Do you think Cuddy's lost her mind?


	9. Right Thru Me

Chapter 9: Right Thru Me

Silence. Silence can convey any emotion. It's empty, neutral, therefore it any_one_ can project any_thing_, any feeling, onto it.

There are angry silences, otherwise known as the "silent treatment". It's agonizing, and it evokes an extreme desire for words, any words, no matter what they may mean. Words lead to conclusion, an end to the deafening silence. Whether the result is wonderful, or tragic, either is better than waiting in the dark, in silence. There may be a sliver of hope with the extended quiet, but it only serves to tantalize until finally, there is conversation.

There's content silences shared between friends, lovers, and family. Sitting with somebody without the need to share a single word is a sign of comfort, intimacy beyond that which can be achieved by those without a profound connection. Those are, perhaps, the most wonderful of silences. They warm the heart and soothe the soul.

Then, there are eerie silences, like in horror films. Just as the protagonist is creeping around the corner, the murderer skulks behind. The unfortunate victim hears his footsteps being echoed. He pauses and there is instantaneous silence. Nothing. Those dreadful seconds of waiting are the most terrifying, as life seems to hang in the balance. The anticipation forces the stomach to flip and the nerves to arise. Another step. A scream. He cries out as he's stabbed from behind and the knife is painstakingly twisted through his abdomen.

There's sad silence which sets in just prior to bad news, some horrific statement which no explanation can compensate for:

_"Where's th-," he shushed her, eliminating the distance between them, scooting closer while trying not to shift the bed too much. Though she wasn't in excruciating pain at the moment, she might be later, and he didn't want to risk adding to it._

_She looked up at him, searching, trying to see through him. Unable to glimpse into his eyes, as his chin was tilted too far up, she asked again, her voice quavering. He massaged his thigh rhythmically, then stopped suddenly with a sigh._

_There was silence._

_"I'm sorry, Lisa."_

Last, but certainly not least, there is the loathsome silence following an argument. After all is said and done, there is no more conversation, no more yells because both have decided to compromise, it has been resolved, or worse, one of the combatants has left. This cathartic silence is somehow incredibly loud and forces you into your own mind where your thoughts are racing. It is in the silence that you realize exactly what you've said, which is usually more than you should have. In an argument, you say things you would never say under normal circumstances. Maybe guilt follows, depending on the harshness of whatever idiotic, and possibly untrue statements you made. The worst are the truer accusations. Maybe hurt follows because of the insults made towards you, the truth in their sharp, venomous words. Sometimes there's more anger, and all the bottled up frustration comes to a boil. You might want to hit someone, something, or just scream. There's sometimes the craving to be forgiven for the things you said. This only happens when it is a fight shared between friends, family, lovers; people who matter. Along with this, you might want an apology, and to know your opponent feels just as sorry for the statements they've directed toward you.

And sometimes, there's every one of these emotions all at once.

Still considerably sore, Cuddy shifted in bed, carrying not only a guilty conscience, but also a heavy heart.

Just after House stormed off, as quickly as he could with his substantial limp, a nurse stepped in. She was young, younger than Cuddy, with long brown hair and forest green eyes. She was classically pretty and naive, Cuddy suspected, never having experienced the things Cuddy had. This girl had never felt real pain judging by the guiltless look her eye. The Dean of Medicine nodded her head and smiled toward the woman as she handed her the paperwork, hoping she had made the right decision.

Even as the younger girl left, Cuddy stared, envious of her preserved sense of innocence. Cuddy's was long gone. She was exposed to the real world and all the burdens it brought.

Everything hurt: her entire stomach, every single joint, her heart, and her pride. The saddest part was that she had yet to ween herself from the pain medication. It was too agonizing. She looked down at her hands curled in her lap, nearly laughing aloud at the hilarity of it. She felt like House.

He knew pain, physical and emotional, just as she did. It brought them together. What pushed them apart was their ruthless nature, the way they hurt each other. Every one of his sentences had stung her more sharply than the sting of a bee. This pain wouldn't cease until House himself tore out the stingers, leaving only the tender marks of where the stingers had been. Even those would fade eventually. But she doubted House felt sorry for what he said because it was all truth, and that fact stung the most.

House meandered down the halls, aimlessly at first. The lighting seemed dim, but it could have been the gray atmosphere, he supposed. His clothes were wrinkled from two days of wear, as he had only left the hospital to change once when Cuddy had encouraged him to. He was reluctant to leave her side, which didn't go unnoticed. He was worried about her, and she smiled at the thought because it showed that she mattered to him, or at least more than everyone else.

After a few hours of constant nagging and persuasive measures, House left to shower and change, bringing back with him one of Cuddy's books and a change of clothes for her as well. The clothes she had worn to the hospital were grotesque and stained with blood, which was beside the point because the hospital had already disposed of them.

When he walked into Cuddy's hospital room with her outfit and novel in hand, she was quite obviously surprised. She hadn't asked for anything, which meant House was considerate and thoughtful. It wasn't exactly his specialty. She smiled at him gratefully, knowing she shouldn't emphasize exactly how sweet it was. It would only make him regret it. As odd as it seemed, House was House.

After ten minutes of directionless walking and incessant shooting pains in his leg, House decided he needed to sit. Coincidentally enough, House thought to himself, Wilson's office had a chair, and lollipops too. The way he saw it it was a double win.

He didn't bother to knock when the oncologist's door came into view. He barged in and sat, refusing to meet his best friend's gaze until he was comfortably seated. Surprisingly enough, Wilson didn't even bother to pretend to be angered by the audacious manner in which House entered his office. He looked down at his desk somberly, a look that House purposely ignored as he withdrew a lollipop from the jar.

"What," the already edgy diagnostician hissed.

"I uh," Wilson fumbled for the proper words, the right condolence to fit the scenario, and also suit House. "I heard what happened. I uh, I'm sorry, House."

When there was no response, he decided on continuing, "How's Cuddy?" Truthfully, he'd been wondering for days, as any good friend would have, about both she and House. Being polite and well-mannered, the complete opposite of the man across from him, he settled on being courteous and giving them thier privacy. A bombardment of visitors would only make it worse.

"Stitches come out tomorrow, and her heart rate's been stable."

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows, "No, I mean how is she," he paused, "How is she taking all of this?" He motioned with his hands, "How are you taking all of it?"

Childishly, House spun his cane in circles, catching it as it slowed just in time to twirl it again. After adjusting the sleeve on his pure white dress shirt, Wilson searched House's face for any sign of anything. To his dismay, it was as desolate and empty as the desert, leaving no trace of feeling.

"She wants the kid autopsied," he changed the subject slightly to what was truly on his mind.

"Which means that you don't," Wilson half-stated, half-asked.

"Deductive reasoning at its finest," House commented fiercely.

With the tilt of his head and a look of disappointment, Wilson replied, "Why don't you want the autopsy," he wondered, trying to gain some understanding, "You live to solve mysteries."

"The grapevine here isn't too reliable," House observed, meeting the expression of his friend whose eyes were narrowed. "She," he exhaled loudly, "had a placental abruption."

Wilson's lips curled downward into a mild grimace, and he turned his face away from House for a moment before turning back with a curious look, "Then why would they autopsy th-"

House cut in, "Exactly," he pounded his cane against the floor, "Why _would_ they do an autopsy?"

"They wouldn't need to."

"Cuddy does," he explained, "I called her selfish, said she should find a new sperm donor, threw in the word "dead" a few times."

"You weren't a sperm donor in the first place. You're her boyfriend, House. Why would you say that? Just to be a jerk?"

House averted his gaze toward the ceiling as if he was pondering the thought, "Eh, she's just using me for my body anyway."

Wilson shook his head and then rested it on his hand. Neither of the doctors said anymore. House skillfully tossed his lollipop stick into the garbage can, "So you had an argument. And you're guilty." A smirk played on his lips, "That's a new feeling for you."

House scowled at him, snarling just slightly, "I'm not guilty. I was brutally honest."

"You're always brutally honest," Wilson answered.

"That qualifies me as an ass, not as guilty."

Wilson nodded, "When you act like an ass to someone you don't bother telling me about it. It happens too often for you to tell me every time. It just so happens you were a total ass to Cuddy, and you feel bad about it."

"Does this mean I have a conscience," he asked sarcastically, "Then why the hell have you been acting like my conscience for all these years?"

"Did she sign off on the autopsy," he questioned, ignoring the snarky comments.

"Since I physically can't be two places at once, although I once had a dream where I was with two wome-,"

"House," Wilson said sternly, redirecting the conversation.

"I don't know."

"Whatever she did," Wilson spoke softly, "just let it go. So what? You get the results and there's nothing to be found. She's mourning because she just lost a baby, House, something she's wanted for God knows how long." House's eyelids dropped lower, and he practically flinched at Wilson's words, "Pretend to apologize."

"And lie?"

"It's not a lie when you actually feel guilty."

House groaned, "I don't care much for apologies."

But he stood up against his cane, moving crookedly to the door. "One thing I don't understand," he interrogated, "Why does Cuddy want the baby autopsied?"

House looked over his shoulder, then back to the door, "You just said it yourself." Wilson's face read of pure confusion, and although House wasn't looking at him, he could practically envision it, "Guilt."

"I've been an idiot," House uttered in a monotone after minutes of silence. He sat himself at the edge of her bed, just far enough so that her feet were beside him. "I still have this stupid argument in my head."

"You talked to Wilson," she said, uninterested.

He appreciated the way she knew him, but admittedly, it wasn't helping at the moment. "No," he answered quickly as if offended. Cuddy shot him a look of complete disbelief. "Okay, okay. I did," he admitted, "but he only tells me things I already know," he muttered under his breath so that Cuddy couldn't hear him.

"I don't need an empty apology," she told him, showcasing her strength and thick skin. It was too bad House was well aware that she was dying on the inside, and he had done nothing to help.

"Good," he answered, "I'm not one for apologies," he repeated what he told Wilson just moments before. He sighed, "I'm a moron, which you already know, but I-I care about you. Even when we fight, it doesn't mean I don't think about you," Cuddy thought about the flowers at her bedside, who were from one of the staff members, or so House claimed. "I," he turned to face the floor before looking her in the eyes, "want you to be happy."

"Me too," she moved her hair to one side.

His expression softened even further, "I said some things I shouldn't have-"

She put up her hand to quiet him, "No, you were telling the truth. You were right again," she admitted with harbored hostility, "I'm not thinking straight."

"I was a jerk. You didn't deserve that."

"I needed a wake up call."

He told her honestly, "But you needed me to be a decent person, and I wasn't."

"Thank you."

Cuddy rested her feet in his lap, letting time pass. "Did you mean what you said about not trying again," she asked almost reluctantly.

"I meant it, but it isn't completely up to me. Unfortunately..."

"It isn't completely my decision either. It's supposed to be _our_ decision," she broke off, "Didn't you want this?" She hoped she wouldn't regret asking.

He massaged his leg with his hand as a distraction from the seriousness of it all, "I agreed to it, didn't I?" She let out a breath of relief, "But I need you."

She was surprised by his sincerity, and hearing House's admittance nearly took her breath away. "What does this have to do with me," she questioned, masking her excitement.

"Sure a kid running around, all snot-nosed and loud," he imagined it as he spoke, "would be good. I know you want that."

"But?"

He scooted closer and held her feet in his lap, "But I need you. I didn't lose you this time. It could have been an even closer call-"

"But you wouldn't let it happen. I don't remember that night well, but I know what you did. I know you abused the doctors and made asses out of them so I'd get the best treatment."

"I don't want to take the chance again. Something you, and consequentially I want," he lifted his left hand, "Or something I need," he lifted his right hand even higher.

She sat up with more ease than she would have the day before and let her legs dangle from the side of the bed as she moved next to him. "You're a sweet man," she smoothed his stubble with her thumb. She pressed her lips to his cheek, and silence set in again. This time is was comfortable and gratifying, a feeling neither could completely explain.

* * *

Author's Note: I gave you all a happy ending with this chapter. I think it might be the first, but I do apologize for the angsty nature of it all. There are still two questions I have yet to answer so far. Do you know what they are? I'd love to hear some of your predictions. Thank you for the support. Oh, and has anyone wondered about the chapter names? I'll post that information with chapter 11 if you want me to. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	10. Secrets

Chapter 10: Secrets

Death does not care whom it takes. It is not capable of remorse, nor does it care to comprehend the task it fulfills. It is ignorant to the tears it leaves within its wake as it sweeps yet another soul from another being. Just another corpse. Another piece of matter. Another skeleton to be wept upon and then exiled deep into the ground where the worms can devour the skin and take all but decalcifying bone. Then it ignorantly watches from a distance as a headstone is forced into the soil, and the creature is left to fade into oblivion.

If there is a spare moment, though there almost never is, death may glance over the gravestone, and perceive the same three letter sequence "R.I.P". It wonders what that means. Sometimes, just sometimes, it reads the name etched beneath. Knowing the name of the deceased makes the experience that much more personal, and death cannot dwell on a single life it has stolen, for it has hundreds more to take, many more people to disappoint. Death has not dared to run its scarlet eyes over a single epitaph, either. Perhaps because that would be unethical, a slap in the face to those who have lost their loved one, not that they would know anyway.

In the end, death cannot allow itself to feel pity for the families, the dreary eyed, ghostly relatives of the dead. At the end of the day, it has a quota, which it has no choice but to fulfill. It is undoubtedly the most torturous of jobs, but it is a job that must be done.

Thankfully, death is not a human. Human minds function on approximately 7% empathy. People can be empathetic only when they can relate to another's pain, just as the definition states. First, humans must feel the need to concern themselves with another's pain and adopt their perspective. Interestingly enough, there is a small percentage that deviates from this statistic. They live to sympathize, and find vehicles to empathize, or at least think they do. These people are fated for unhappiness, it seems, because the feelings conveyed through empathy are almost always negative.

There is no better vantage point than that of death, lurking at cemeteries and stalking its next victims from above. To death, who lives constantly around those in mourning, the sadness must be nearly palpable. If it could inhale, it could probably breathe in a thick film of depression. If death were human, it would have certainly failed to complete its obligations centuries upon centuries ago. It is the fact that it is an entity, that it is immune to such weak emotion, that makes death as raw and ruthless as it needs to be.

Contrary to popular belief, death has a small window of opportunity when it feels, however little it may be. Feeling is a proclivity in which death does not indulge. That would be far too mortal of a habit and far too dangerous. When death draws the souls from the body with its withered hands, it is overwhelmed with emotion. The moment is a fleeting one, and the feelings dissipate instantaneously once the soul is hoisted onto deaths back, hitching a ride toward the next life. But that millisecond of unbridled emotion, the exact emotion of the soul in death's palm, is the most intense sensation that exists.

After ages of practice, death recognizes and profiles. It can predict which emotion the soul will withhold. The older bodies, those that are feeble and wrinkled, worn from years upon years of life, those are the ones that death snatches easily. They are not generally angry, or at least not with death. They may carry a hint of sadness for all that they will miss on earth, but the elderly know there is a greater fate awaiting them. It likes the elderly because their souls most primarily convey feelings of acceptance. They lived lives long and tiring, and they are almost always relieved that death has finally come for them. Finally. They gratefully leave behind their frail forms, gray hair, and deteriorating minds to drift toward youth again, eternal life.

Carrying middle-aged souls is not as luxurious. Many of their souls are surprised, yearning for more time and exerting a slight resistance. They usually pass suddenly by heart attack, an accident that their aged physical forms could not bear. In turn, they're a bit heavier on death's back, but not nearly as troublesome as those of younger adults.

Adults between twenty and forty do not generally submit to death without a fight. They are all captured and carried off in the end, but this category of souls is taken while kicking and screaming. They do, for the most part, have a right to such behavior. Death can understand that, not through empathy, but through logic. They are deprived of opportunity, of the chance to grow old and weary, of years, of time. Time is such a precious gift, and just when these adult souls had grown accustom to life, the clocks were snagged from underneath them. There is utter disbelief associated with this class, except those with terminal illness, and there is the incredibly dense aspect of regret. There's regret for all that they didn't do, foolish things that they did, and time that was wasted. "If only I had known", many of the souls murmur as they pull death down towards Earth, pleading for another day, another anything. But they always lose the battle.

When there is a teenage soul, there is a visibly green emotion. It is selfishness meshed with naïveté, a combination that is quite nauseating. In their prime, those pubescents are capable of the greatest fight. They try fending off death, slapping its hands away, dumb to the fact that their attempts are futile. When death comes to collect a soul, it does so without fail. There has been but a single exception in which death actually returned a soul, but it was not by will or weakness. It simply slipped through its fingers, that single fortunate soul. Those who "come back from death" or are "near death" and recuperate were never meant to die at all. It does not make errors or give back. Just once. It does not simply lift a soul to spit it back out.

It is conceivable and understandable why death loves children and infants. It licks its lips in anticipation of scooping up such gems, these eternally glistening souls. Children most likely do not comprehend death, and many are unaware of its existence, therefore they have no previous hostility. They are unbiased towards it, a fact that it is well aware and appreciative of. It makes the actual action of robbing a child of its life that much more simple. On top of which, children are most always happy due to their unawareness. They live in a universe all their own, and when death extends its finger to touch a child, it feels incomprehensible bliss. Then, the feeling is gone. When lifting the feather-like souls of an infant, death flies off, still without guilt. For these souls, it has a respect, a respect for the life unlived.

After tragedy, particularly a too close encounter with death, even if that encounter was not personal, there is a process by which normalcy can be attained again. Cuddy had crossed death's path all too recently, grazing his fingertips, but it was not she that it truly wanted. Instead, it wanted the much lighter and vibrant hue of an infant. Cuddy was the epitome of stubborn, and it was no doubt that her soul would have been a thousand pound mass weighing on death. Her child, though, was the installment that was needed in the next realm, light and most manageable for death to transport.

Once the infants soul had gone, it had gone. It was not to be returned. Death glimpsed at Cuddy as he took the child, watching her frantic gestures in awe. She was a feisty one, it observed, one that would make his job much more difficult when it finally did have to take her. It sighed in relief that it was not that day.

"Are you ready to get out of here," Cuddy asked, although the answer was fairly obvious. They were both bored of sitting in the same spot. House was growing restless, his mind from not having the task of solving a nearly unsolvable case, and his body from lack of movement. Even Cuddy was somewhat eager to work because it was a distraction. It meant normalcy.

"Hopefully we won't need to come back anytime soon," he said emphatically.

Cuddy raised her eyebrows and tightened her lip sternly. "If you were anyone else, I would say that was sweet and reassuring," she noted, "and socially acceptable." He scoffed at the notion that he had made a "socially acceptable" comment. "But we happen to work here," she stated ruthlessly.

He pounded his fist against the side table, "Dammit, I completely forgot"

She rolled her eyes, "Shut up, House."

"I thought the sappy comment would've got you."

Cuddy shook her head, her curls springing upward with renewed life, "I'm tired," she confessed, "but not that tired."

He nodded his head, "I knew there was a reason I was drawn to you." Her serious expression became gradually softer. "Wait," he cocked his head upward, ruminating, "that reason might have been your giant ass."

She slapped his arm, and the sound bounced jovially from the walls. "Ow," he rubbed his upper arm, a playful pained look on his face. "The other was your intelligence." She relaxed back into her bed, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "No wait." Cuddy closed her eyes, awaiting the next round of their banter, "that might have been your cleavage in all those low-cut tops."

"Do you know what drew me to you, House," she asked vengefully.

He put his hand over his mouth, "Hmmm. My good looks... my charm... my unfathomable wit," he paused, "I don't know."

"Me either," she snickered, and he pressed his palm over his chest, but grinned challengingly.

"You are an evil and cunning woman," he looked up at her, his head tilted, "It's an enormous turn on."

The corner of her mouth curled upward and one of her eyes narrowed, "Are you done pushing my buttons for the day?"

"Sadly, that's not as dirty as it sounds," he grimaced, "Are you done pushing mine? I'm betting the answer is no seeing as you're a chronic pain in the ass."

She scowled, "You should get that checked out by a doctor." He noticeably fought the urge to smile. "Actually," she lifted her head in a dignified manner, "I am done for the day. Have you had your fill," she asked expectantly.

"How long have you known me?"

"I figured I'd give it a shot," she replied tiredly, flicking her wrist.

House stared at the adjacent wall, "Your sister called." Cuddy gulped hard as if swallowing a handful of Vicodin, and it seemed she had become three shades whiter.

"Why didn't you tell me," she pressed.

"Leverage," he shrugged his shoulders apathetically.

She ignored him altogether, "What did she say?" Then a look of horror crept up onto her face, "What did _you_ say?"

He shrugged again, "That's where the leverage part comes in."

"Leverage for what, House," she both looked and sounded unamused. Unfortunately, it looked as if she was in no position to demand answers. According to House, he had leverage and there was something festering inside that frustratingly brilliant mind of his.

He stared off into space, analyzing, the function his mind completed most efficiently. "You didn't sign off on the autopsy." His eyes were narrowed and his expression was stern, but curious, the same way it was when solving a case.

"What are you talking about," she asked assuredly.

"I know you didn't agree to it," he said with conviction, "You couldn't have."

She ran her fingertips through her hair, her white skin an unbelievable contrast to her raven hair, "How did you know?" Her gaze was fixed on the bedsheets.

"There's the fact that you just admitted to it," for the split second the Dean of Medicine wanted to kick herself, "but there's also the fact that you've been as patient as you always are. So really, not so patient."

She looked at him as she felt: disconnected, "So I'm as impatient as I always am. How do you figure I didn't sign off on the autopsy?" A lot of the time, even when she refused to admit it, Greg House astounded her, in the best and worst of ways.

"If you would've signed off you would be more impatient than you usually are. But you don't seem like you're waiting for anything."

Her crystal irises seemed narrow as her pupils dilated in amazement, "So you figured all of this out because I seem just fairly impatient?"

"I may also have ties with the hospital staff."

Her blood was nearly boiling, but somewhere deep within herself, she had to give him credit for the way he led her on just to agitate her. It was, if nothing else, an impressive ability. "So why did you argue with me about it, and then not do it? You're just an instigator, aren't you, Cuddles?"

She opened her mouth to contend, but he quickly cut her off, "Or your level of self-doubt is insanely high, even for you. You don't trust yourself at all because my thought process seems to make more sense than yours does."

She sat up, correcting her posture in preparation for combat, "My self-doubt is at a completely human and manageable level right now."

He didn't appear to hear her at all, "Maybe you're turning into me and I'm turning into you."

"You don't have the cleavage for it," she shot back at him.

He tapped his finger on the arm of the chair, but his eyes were straining to see something in the distance, the answer. Then, the tension in his jaw could no longer be seen, and he seemed at ease. "You made the right choice."

She stifled a laugh, "Of course you would say that. Because I did what you wanted."

"That's a big part of it," he smiled narcissistically, "but it was the right choice for the kid."

It was one of those moments when House's emotions seeped from behind his mask. Or maybe it was the fact that Cuddy had known him for so long, not that he could be considered readable in any sense of the word. In all her pain, she neglected to acknowledge that the child she lost was not only hers, but his as well. She would mentally abuse herself over it, that much was undeniable. She wanted to apologize, but at the same time, she had a right to her own grief. So, she let him speak, something she should have done days ago.

"They don't need to be poking at it when we already know why it isn't alive anyway," he told her plainly. Since when did House care about prodding around in a dead body, she wondered. She could even recollect House autopsying the body of a woman who had been dead for decades, just to prove a point. It didn't make sense until she saw the most infinitesimal speck of anguish in his eyes. He cared because it wasn't just a body. It wasn't a patient, one of those people he tried so hard not to connect with. It was his son.

"It would be disrespectful," she affirmed and searched for a fitting term, "unethical." It was odd how irrational she had become over her son's death, and how rational House had seemed.

He yawned, stretching his arms up, deflecting, "I'm always right."

"I wouldn't say that." Her train of thought temporarily derailed, she laid back contently, knowing that House had been there impelling her toward the right choice for their son. On some level, it was reassuring. On another, it was frightening. Then, she was reawakened by a petrifying thought, "What did Julia say?"

"I have more leverage," he smirked arrogantly.

"Oh no," she was quick to react, her quick-wittedness working in her favor, "I answered your question, now you answer mine."

He moved his mouth to one side and squinted, considering her proposition. "Technically I answered my own question."

Cuddy groaned, "I discussed it, confirmed it. Tell me what my sister said."

"She's definitely a Cuddy," his eyes grew wide.

She rubbed her forehead, "Yeah, she can out-Cuddy me."

The diagnostician shook his head and made a gesture with his hands as if he were holding something between them, "You've got a tighter ass, and you're a tight ass for a boss too."

"Thanks," she replied sarcastically.

"She called to see how you were, threatened to call the cops if I didn't put you on the phone, blah blah blahhh," he droned, "She's a good conversationalist."

Cuddy shook her head, trying to hide her amusement, "How'd you dodge that bullet?" She became serious when she faced the reality of her situation, all that had occurred, "Did you tell her?"

"I charge a lap dance for every additional question."

She folded her arms in disapproval. "What other "leverage"," she mocked him with air quotes, "do you have?"

"What was I right about?" He heard her voice repeating those words over and over. Through the pain, that was all she uttered. You were right. He had refrained from asking for long enough. Now, he needed to know.

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Author's Note: Any guesses? I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you for your reviews and feedback. All your reviews motivate me to keep writing, and I appreciate you all so much. I apologize for the long intro, but I hope it piqued your interest. So what was Cuddy talking about? What else was House right about?


	11. I Like it Rough

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! You're all amazing! If you're wondering how much longer this will be, I'm thinking it will most likely be about 16 chapters. I hope I've kept you all interested throughout. I wanted to maintain some sort of realistic aspect, and there's only so much drama that could truly occur with a couple within a weeks time. Thank you again for your support and I hope you enjoy the chapter! Also, I'll post the chapter info with the next update. I apologize, I just wanted to get this update out there for you all to read.

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Chapter 11: I Like it Rough

Everyone has a secret. Everyone has a small piece of them, some greater than others, hidden from the world. Why? Deep down everyone fears alienation and tries to conceal their imperfections in an attempt to be what society deems respectable. From this derives social decorum, and originality dwindles as the years pass.

Every person is born an original, even identical twins are not quite identical. Each one of us has a distinct finger print, and on a physical level, there are no carbon copies, not by natural means. Cloning is new in molecular biology, and there are precise methods in which DNA is replicated in such an unnatural way. There is a vector whose DNA is cut by restriction endonucleases, preparatory enzymes such as phosphatases, and ligase used to create recombinant DNA. Doesn't that sound like a natural process?

No, it is far from a natural biological process, which is why cloning is defined as a cell, cell product, or organism that is genetically identical to the unit or individual from which it was derived. It is a biological development, not an inherent bodily function.

In turn, everyone is born as an individual, a small infant, a lump of clay. Over time, the clay will not only be physically morphed, but mentally as well. Whether we are aware of it or not, the society we live in is heavily involved in shaping us as people. Culture is a primary contributing factors as well, though it's hard to decide exactly which factor is most heavily involved in development. Culture determines the food we eat, our beliefs, religion, and acceptable behavior. There's that social decorum which was mentioned earlier. Our families shape us in terms of morals and behavior, manners and awareness.

In all this, when you reach a certain age, there is a sense of free will. There are always the small decisions you make along the seemingly endless path toward maturity, but it is the choices that are made when you reach maturity that define you. You are formed by your experiences, and they become a part of you. You are a part of society until you become society.

The reason for secrecy is just that. Everybody wants so badly to be accepted and respected, no matter what they may say. We shove away some of the factors that have made us who who we are, the part of us that will be denounced by society.

Everybody talks. It is common knowledge that once that secret falls from the lips, it will take on a life of its own. Like gremlins, secrets will morph if they aren't properly taken care of, and often more often then not, they are battered and beaten in transit. A secret is not likely shared between two or three. It extends its nasty arms outwards and reaches more than who was intended, hence "three can keep a secret if two of them are dead." So everybody talks, and everybody lies to hide pieces of themselves.

Everybody lies. Everybody leads influenced lives, and then everybody dies.

"House," Cuddy glared at him impatiently, "I don't know what you're talking about." Her eyelids hung low, and she ran her hand repeatedly up and down her neck.

He squinted towards her, hardly moving in his chair. "You're lying again," he observed, keeping an even tone.

Two fairly flat pillows were perched between her neck and the hospital bed, and she rested her entire forearm on the bedrail, frustrated with constantly adjusting her IV. "Just because I can't follow your deranged train of thought doesn't mean that I'm lying." She huffed, "Now what did you tell me sister," she annunciated each of her words for emphasis.

"You're rubbing your throat," he tilted his head left and right, "Usually what someone does when they're telling a lie fatter than their ass." A look of sheer determination made its way onto her face, "And now you're accusing me of lying because I'm rubbing my neck."

"Not just your neck," he clarified, "the front of your neck where your throat is. That means you're lying. Didn't you ever take a course in psych?" She proceeded to run her hand up and down in front of her throat, firm in her explanation that she was just "rubbing her neck." "There's the eye contact," he continued, sensing her skepticism in his skills of analyzation, "You never bothered to look away."

She parted her lips to speak after conjuring reasonable evidence for her claim, "Generally, maintaining eye contact means their being honest," she said derogatorily, "Apparently you weren't listening in class."

"I definitely wasn't listening," he chuckled and raised his eyebrows, "You should have seen the professor." He made an obscene gesture with his hands that Cuddy purposely chose to ignore. He drifted off into a sort of daydream, until he felt Cuddy's eyes piercing through his skin. She looked at him expectantly, "If you had no idea what I was talking about you'd be interested, or at least you'd try to remember. And when someone is trying to recall details, they look away from the person they are speaking to." He made an obnoxious sounds with his lips, indicating he had won that round, "Then there's the fact that you keep changing the subject."

She threw her arms up, "Maybe because I'm more interested in another subject than whatever it is you're trying to get out of me."

House, having unparalleled skill in analyzation, had already made up his mind. He, like a panther, was in full Pursuit of the answer. She had piqued his interest, and for days he had refrained from asking. It was about time for his thirst for explanation to be quenched. "Or you don't want to discuss it." He leaned forward in his chair, "I know I'm right about a lot of things," he cocked his head to the side, thinking, "Come to think of, I'm never wrong. I understand why it would be "hard to remember" what exactly I was right about, but we both know you know. I'm interested, and-"

Cuddy interrupted, staring down, "and when you've found a puzzle that interests you, you solve it." She was practically mumbling in annoyance. "I'm not giving you the answer to this one."

"So you are a liar," he pointed his finger at her in a jeering manner.

"Everybody lies."

He sat, unmoving, awaiting his precious answer. "You can get your team on this one," her eyes were tired, "but this isn't a case and you aren't getting an answer."

"Okay," he shrugged his shoulders.

Her eyebrows shifted together, creating defined wrinkles beneath them, "Ok?"

"I like your determination," he explained, "it's what makes you such a nympho, but my stubbornness will outlast yours."

"Greg, let it go," she pleaded, though it came out as more of an order.

"I'll get the team on it," he stated, "With three semi-intelligent brains and my intellectual genius, I'll have the answer in..." he glimpsed at his watch, "eh, two days max." This would usually be the point when Cuddy smirked, turned on her heel and walked away in her usual steadfast manner or surrendered. She did neither of those. "Fine," was her only utterance.

House's mind was an indomitable racetrack, and his thoughts were like sports cars, shaped aerodynamically with fiberglass hoods and rotating rims. They tore down the track at immeasurable rates, until they reached the finish line, each and every car.

He didn't really want to involve his team, and if he needed their help, he knew he'd have to use a clever tactic, bribery, and possibility a few threats as a precaution. If he condoned them snooping into his personal business, it might only lead to more curiosity, and his life could potentially unfold before them. It would piss Cuddy off, which was the effect he was going for, but he was certain she wouldn't answer to his team. She was far too dignified for that.

Cuddy's patience was diminishing, and she cleared her throat, shooting him a look that conveyed "answer my question or die." House folded his hands in his lap, his chin tilted toward the floor. "I didn't tell her anything," his pitch became higher, "so you can stopping killing me with your eyes. It's kind of a distraction from your breasts."

"Did you at least tell her I was in the hospital," she engaged in the more important fragment of their conversation.

"Then I'd have to explain everything to that cutthroat bitch, waste more of my precious time on the phone with her, listen to her piss and moan about your tr-"

The Dean of Medicine cut in again, sighing loudly, "Oh thank God." Admittedly, House was taken back. He expected that she would have wanted Julia to know, but it seemed Cuddy wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with her either.

"How are you feeling," he asked seriously, and she shrugged. "I'm alright," her voice was wonderfully gritty, "Why?"

"You had no comeback when I called your sister a cutthroat bitch."

She laughed, and the room seemed suddenly brighter from House's perspective. Then she breathed out an even breath, "Well she is a-," she stuttered, searching for an appropriate term, "a handful. She's more uptight than I am."

"Which is saying a lot."

She rolled her eyes, but her lighthearted expression didn't falter, "I'll call her later."

"Speaking of uptight," he cleared his throat, "my boss is so uptight that she's making me go to work the day after a hospital visit."

"Sounds like a grade A work-a-holic, or a bitchy dragon lady."

House ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin while contemplating, "Actually, both. Lucky for me she's always wearing a too low shirt and a tight skirt that somehow fits around her ginormous ass. It makes it easier for me to fantasize while she tries to order me around."

"Well," she started, clearly unphased, "maybe she has paperwork to do and days of work to catch up on."

He just nodded, knowing she had a lot to handle, the staff to tell about her stillbirth, family to contact, and business to do. He also knew she craved normalcy with every fiber of her being, and going back to work could give them that.

"After I get signed out today, we can go home, and sleep the day away," she suggested, yawning in exhaustion.

"Until your alarm goes off and ruins it for me."

She argued, "You don't get up when my alarm goes off. I do."

"But I have to hear it," he whined.

"I don't care. I'm the one who has to get up at 6:30."

He held his hand up, his fingers suspended, "And I'm the one who has to try and sleep through it."

"The couch has an open seat for you to sleep on if you'd prefer. You should sleep downstairs from now on."

The diagnostician grinned slightly at the threat. Deep within, Cuddy knew sleeping without him beside her would be nearly impossible. She felt secure beside him, and she would naturally curl into his warmth. In the morning she'd always be closer to him than the previous night. House, although he knew she loved to "cuddle", had no idea exactly how much, or how much he had meant to her.

"But Mom," he moaned.

"I've heard enough of you talking in your sleep," she complained, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He squinted one eye, his sky blue irises still undeniably bright, "I don't talk in my sleep."

"You'd be surprised what you've told me. Where do you think I get all of my information for blackmail?" Her expression was unwavering and her willingness to battle was nearly palpable.

She smirked playfully when he could find no words to answer.

"You're lying."

"Yup."

She ushered him towards her with the wave of her hand. "That's your second lie today. You are a liar," he accused. He sat beside her nonetheless, and his hand was rested between his thigh and hers.

"Like I said," she repeated, "Everybody lies."


	12. Dare You to Move

Chapter 12: Dare You to Move

_I'm fine._

That is amongst the most common lies.

What do you do when all that has been given to you is torn away? Perhaps, you think to yourself, it would have been less painful if it were never given to you at all. It would have been better to never have felt in your palm, and smelled its distinct aroma. It would have been better to never have tasted it, for it was yours, or so you thought, and you felt it safe to indulge in. Aren't you supposed to appreciate that which you have been given, to relish in your own blessings.

There are those who take for granted their lives, those who are so terribly hungry for material things. But how could you possibly enjoy this so called gift if you never longed for it, desired it with the entirety of your heart and soul? You aren't starved, are you, thirsting for commodities and trampling all that lay in your passage towards the useless items that you dare call necessity? No you are not of that breed because you wished for your little present selflessly, well as selfless as desires can be considered.

Then, by some miracle, a fairy godmother descended to earth to grant you your wish. She twirled her wand, you assume, and that priceless, precious gift had been given to you. Your heart leapt from your chest and your mind went into a sort of frenzy, as how you deserved such a thing, that thing you had prayed for, was unknown to you. The irony is in the interim, prior to receiving it, you had spoke to yourself over and over those reasons why you did deserve it. Now, enraptured by its magic, none of those reasons seems good enough.

After you finally are able to arise from your stupor and rejoice for all that you've received, that blessing is stolen. A man clad in black to match the midnight sky steals off into the night after snatching your belonging.

That, my friends, is the excruciating pain inflicted upon Tantalus. Forever does he rest neck deep in water, but he is parched. How can that be so, you may wonder, as the man is practically drowning in that which he claims to be deprived. Each time he tilts his chin to sip the water which taunts him, it disappears into thin air. Just like your gift. Tantalus' thirst worsens, and so derives the word tantalize. She felt as miserably close as those two star-cross'd lovers, their arms extend toward one another in the second sphere where they reside in hell. They spiral, growing dizzy and weary, but still reaching, ever reaching toward one another. Their fingertips just about meet, but the winds whip around once again, forcing them to suffer, to be apart for all eternity.

That's what God, or whatever greater being exists up within the clouds, has subjected the protagonists of this tale. He/she/it, had given Cuddy the single thing she lacked, the one wish for which she would, conceivably, give up all else. This embedded a child within her womb, and fed it life, allowing him to grow within her, to kick restlessly against her insides, a feeling that is unlike no other. Just a mere few months before he would open his eyes, the sweet baby boy, he was torn from Cuddy's insides and the life was drained from him.

She had never been so close before. Never had she made it to the 2nd trimester, nonetheless the final. This was it, she thought. Her dreams were so frustratingly close to coming to life that she truly believed they would. She found hope again after countless years of failed attempts and rejections. With this, all was taken from her.

_I'm fine._

She tells the world time and time again, repeating those very words. We are told to lie to ourselves until the lie becomes truth, to "fake it 'til we make it," and so she did just that.

_I'm fine._

Inside, she was no more stable than psychopath, hence irrational behavior and signs of neuroticism. She was shrieking for help, sinking within her own skin. "Help me!" With a shrill voice she cried out, unable to be pacified. "Help me," six feet under screamed over and over until her voice became hoarse and died out completely.

_Do you need help?_

_"I'm fine," she'd reply._

The thought of being a father had become a reality for House.

_Are you okay?_

_"I'm fine," he'd mutter._

_How are you two?_

_"We're fine."_

Leading with his cane, the black paint chipped slightly in certain places, House stepped through the doors of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He exhaled thankfully as he passed the clinic, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the desk. No, he didn't want to see the "patients" packed within the waiting room, each seated in one of those chairs with maroon cushions that could hardly be called cushions at all. Then again, House considered, they were not meant to be slept on.

One of the nurses watched him intently, and quite obviously. Her mouth was agape, as she was surprised to see him. "You should probably close your mouth," the weary-eyed doctor suggested, "you might catch flies."

The nurse followed orders, averting her gaze to one of the files sprawled out before her, her long blonde hair hindering her view. House was flooded with a sense of gratitude, silently thanking Cuddy that he did not have clinic duty until their lives became somewhat normal again. House doubted that would ever happen, that they would ever truly repair their hearts of the damage that had been done. They were like statues that had plummeted from the shelf. Sure, they were working to glue one another, to piece themselves back and resemble their former selves, but the cracks would always be visible. There was no denying that they had, in fact, been broken. But how could he tell Cuddy? He was certain she already knew anyway. The deal, of no clinic duty, though, that was just a deal he would never turn down. That was her unpronounced thank you, but House hadn't expected one at all. He was simply doing as any normal person would do. On second thought, he reconsidered, that was new to him, acting normal.

He shrugged, his internal monologue continuing as he forced the door to his office open. His gray shirt was worn, wrinkled, and tired just as he was. His wardrobe seemed to mimic that which was inside. In that moment, he was as a chameleon.

He limped and came to stand directly in front of his whiteboard. There were no symptoms written upon it, none of his little scribbles impeding on its purity. Since he'd been gone there was not a single blemish against the blinding white.

Dr. Cameron, whose hair was lazily held from her face by a hair tie, looked as if she was suffering from indigestion. Her face was flush and she swallowed as if she was trying to ingest in chewed food. Her eyes lingered on House's face, justifiably so, as she was scanning, determining, and analyzing. She was a people person and thought it her obligation to care for others, like Cuddy, but even worse. It was her personal involvement in cases that hampered several diagnoses. It hurt her as a doctor.

Chase was purposely trying not to stare, his eyes flickering between the walls, floor, the file on the table, and then, for a billionth of a second, flashing toward his boss.

Foreman, opposing the other two doctors, was standing, wearing the same look of taste that always tore at his face and stripped him of all things good. It was just slightly more sympathetic than usual. That's the reaction House would have had, and to some extent, he appreciated Foreman's lack of concern. It was considerably less than Chase's and unbelievably less than Cameron's. House loathed pity, and he wasn't receiving it from his coworker.

"Where is my case," he demanded, causing the wide-eyed brunette to jump and awaken from the mesmerized state she had been in.

She unfolded her hands, laying her palms flat on the table as if debating whether to stand. Her lips were parted and House could tell she was about to speak. He silenced her. He silenced them all, "Not a word." The look on his face, for some reason, did not correlate with his threatening statement. He was physically emaciated and his face could not seem to hold anger, nothing more than sternness. Cameron noticed this incongruence, but wiped it from her mind. "Symptoms."

"Memory loss," Foreman responded, but House had already taken the manila folder from in front of the seemingly incoherent blonde man. "That's senescence," the diagnostician informed his team arrogantly, "not a symptom."

Chase, who appeared as if he had just awoken after a long night of partying and hard liquor shook his head, his eyebrows inching closer together, "Senescence?" His British accent distorted the word, "she's 18."

House flipped intently to the front of the patient's chart, letting his own eyes examine the patient's age.

"18" was printed in bold letters beside her name. "Like I said," Foreman cocked his head in the distinguishable way that he always did when he was right, "memory loss."

House chose the red marker, lifting it carelessly, the point an inch from the board. "Write her symptoms," he barked, throwing the market towards Cameron, then proceeding to sit. He winced, clearly exhausted despite the hours of rest he had the day before.

Foreman looked at him questioningly, and Chase acted oblivious to the fact that his boss never let anyone else write on the board. "Why did you pick her to-"

House, too tired to conjure a tasteless joke to justify his decisions simply told the truth, "She hasn't said anything yet." He squinted, his crystal irises pent rating through hers, "but I can practically hear your thoughts just looking at your face. You should probably learn to control that." He put his hand in front of his mouth, as if to block Cameron from hearing his statement, "Now I know who not to take on my poker team."

Foreman rolled his eyes, and Chase stared with no particular expression. "Sore throat," he spoke towards Cameron who wrote it on the board in finely crafted cursive.

House kept staring at Cameron do it was blatantly obvious. She shot him periodicog lances of confusion, but did not want to say anything of it aloud for fear of hurting the pride of a man who had just endured immense trauma. His eyes ran over her. Once. Twice. Three times.

. . .

"Lisa," a booming voice cried frantically, sounding almost like a parrot, just barely able to form a sentence, "what is going on? You had me worried sick not answering my calls," she scolded.

Cuddy, rested her forehead in her palm, further stretching the phone cord. She breathed in response, questioning where to begin, though she had rehearsed it several times in her mind. From her seat, she strained her eyes, looking at the lock to her office door, triple checking that it was, in fact, locked.

"Julia," she protested, only to be interrupted. "Don't Julia," her sister mimicked her voice, "me. I know you're always so busy with work," she said critically, "but you couldn't find a minute to call, or at least answer your damn phone."

She shut her eyes, appreciative that she had found an entrance, an opening to air out her latest escapades, "I haven't had my phone."

"Don't give me that," the more anul of the Cuddy sisters chided, "I called your work phone too. What's your excuse for that, Lis?"

Gesturing with her hand, as if her sibling could see her, Cuddy replied, "I haven't been at work."

There was a moment of silence, and Cuddy heard Julia gulp on the other end. "Is everything okay," she questioned, genuinely concerned. Her tone was worried, much less harsh than just seconds before. She knew her sister well enough to know that she never missed work unless she was deathly ill, and it was this bit of knowledge that terrified her. "Is everything okay with the baby," she spewed, Cuddy's responses not coming fast enough.

The words were staggering, and she felt as if she had taken a bullet to her heart. She placed her hand over her chest, her thin fingers slightly bent. She couldn't find any words. For a moment, she spoke no English. "Lisa," Julia pursued. Cuddy removed her hand from in front of her heart, studying her fingers, half-expecting they would be drenched in blood.

She flashed back to that night.

_It was usually nightfall that brought monsters, that signified evil and all the terrors of the world. It is in darkness that the ghosts awaken and the earthly sinners run rampant. This time, it was the light that revealed the truth and all the dread that reality was about to carry with it._

_Cuddy tore the sheets from atop her body as the lights flashed on._

_That scream, a scream of bloody murder, rung out instantaneously. House could hear her shrieks echoing in his ears even after they had diminished, dissolving into low groans and sporadic shouts. His usual listless expression faltered and morphed into one of pure horror._

She shook the image from her mind, as her fingers were just fingers. There was not an ounce of blood. She could not believe herself, the insanity of it. She hadn't been shot in the first place. The pain was just so real to her. She let out a long exhale, "I lost the baby."

Julia gasped, which, for some reason, made Cuddy extremely angry. She wished her sister would have had the courtesy to at least contain her shock. Then, she realized it was the insanity kicking in again, the emotional distress wreaking havoc on her heart.

"Are _you_ ok," Julia asked, and Cuddy could practically envision the expression of pity she was wearing. It wasn't empathy, Cuddy thought, a picture of Julia's children flashing through her mind. Just plain pity.

"I'm fine," her voice spoke otherwise. It was raspy, as always. She had always had a distinct sultry voice, but she sounded empty, hollow.

Julia sighed now, "No," she was still in a merciless pursuit, "you're not fine. Are you in this hospital?"

"I'm fine," she repeated, semi-convincingly, "I'm at work right now. I have to go. I'll talk to you later," she murmured, just wanting to hang up, fed up with their conversation.

"Talk to me, Lis," she said firmly, but sympathetically.

Cuddy shook her head at her desk, "I gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Did you tell Mom," she asked out of curiosity, ignoring her sister's protesting.

The Dean of Medicine rolled her eyes then turned her gaze to the ceiling, "You can tell her." She hung up the phone before her sister could respond. She brought her hands to cover her eyes as she sat at her desk in agony. The ogling of each and every one of the doctors and nurses only worsened her anxiety.

She dreaded the walk to her car. She dreaded the walk to the cafeteria. She dreaded every next breath.

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Author's Note: Just a few chapters left! What do you think? This chapterconfit posey confusing. Even the introduction may have lost a few of you, am I right?

In addition, thank you for the amazing reviews. They are the single thing that keep me writing this. I also apologize for the delayed updates. I've been extremely backed up because of school. When this story is over, I intend on writing the sequel. Let me know what you all think.


	13. Mr Brightside

Author's Note: I'm sorry I took so long to update. I always feel awful keeping you all waiting for more than 3 or 4 days. Your reviews were so encouraging because I struggled to find the inspiration to write this chapter. This one is going to drive you all pretty crazy. Let me know what you think and thank you all :)

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Chapter 13: Mr. Brightside

Think back. Think years back, to childhood. Think back to toddling around with juvenile toys of vibrant colors and carelessness. Try to remember that feeling of nonchalance, a feeling that you wish you could attain. It isn't possible to ever to live in that state again. Not now. Your naivety was neglected when you were burdened with concerns, some petty, others not so petty. There's poverty, familial troubles, gossip, academics, athletics, and the list is miles long. Truthfully, the list could possibly wrap around the Earth a few times.

You know of all those things, of war and pain, of physical suffering and emotional agony. You know of panic and anxiety.

Now revert back to childhood again. Go back to when your worries were no larger than time outs and bed times. You can remember it can't you? But can you achieve that feeling again? Not through recollection. Not through anything.

It is nothing more than a recollection now.

A distant memory.

Sometimes, we deliberately try leaving behind those memories of despair, those memories of traumatic experiences and depression. We force them into a deep cavern of the heart to be felt only when we choose to acknowledge them. If we suppress them, they break free on their own time, and cause an eruption; more pain and heartache as debris. They often come back to haunt you if you don't face them. They tear at your insides like tapeworms. As you feed yourself, devote yourself to a life focused on optimism, the tapeworm feeds as well. It takes those memories for its own until it is engorged. Never does it glut its will, and all the goodness and positivity are drained until the negativity becomes overwhelming. Ounce by ounce, your past will consume until there is nothing left of you.

Painful memories might show up in nightmares, haunting you, driving you to the brink of insanity. The worst part is that resistance is futile. There is no fighting off these awful night scares. You have to just deal with them. You have to find the strength to stop screaming. Then there's tears and panic. There's never wanting to fall asleep again, for you'll have to relieve that dreadful moment again and again and again.

They were just distant memories.

With so much to do in life, so much to accomplish in so little time, yesterday often seems like a memory from eons ago.

That was House's perception of it all: a distant memory. God he wished it would be irretrievably distant and disappear forever, or shatter into millions of pieces like a mirror. He would take seven years of bad luck to escape this psychological hell.

It was only days before that everything went awry, days before Cuddy's heart had nearly stopped. It was only days before that her heart, and consequentially , his heart, had broken. That vision of his girlfriend would forever be embedded in his brain. Her demand, his obedience, her scream. Blood coated her entire body and drenched the bed sheets. It was enough to mentally scar anybody, even a doctor, even a sociopath, even Dr. Gregory House. He couldn't wait for that image to fade into a memory.

As for Cuddy, happiness was a memory, or so she told herself. She could not even remember happiness, then again neither could House. They were each deprived of that, each in different ways and by different people. Ultimately, it was their fate to be miserable, and to be miserable together. Their love was pure, purer than that of the star-cross'd lovers discussed by Shakespeare. The two star crossed doctors were both so goddam crestfallen that they could do no more than embrace each other's sorrows. In this, they were able to find that peace again.

Now with recent events that seemed forever ago, that peace was no longer and it too seemed so so long ago. So far away. A distant memory.

In the end, life itself will be gone. It will fall away, be swiped from beneath all of us. Life, all of us, will end up being distant memories.

Cuddy reposed in her office chair. It was genuine black leather, or at least she'd expected no less than such for the price she'd paid for it. She rubbed her eyes with balled up fists like a child, urging herself from her state of lethargy. She couldn't seem to shake that terrible mood that hung overhead like a canopy, which blocked the outside world from seeing in. That canopy had truly become her life. It blocked her from seeing outwards and rejoining the human race, and it prevented all others from seeing inward.

The clicks of her mouse and random clatter of the keys were the only noises penetrating the pitiful serenity. She glanced at the clock (it had only been the 30th time in the past half an hour), groaning as she read the numbers 5,3, and 0. She had promised herself she wouldn't leave until 6:30 pm, an hour away. An hour in that hell would certainly be insurmountable.

She refreshed her email page several times, the numbers growing exponentially by the minute. She had missed so much. It was disheartening to know all the world was living life while her son had lost his and she had come uncomfortably close to losing her own. "Three hundred and forty four," she read aloud, her voice carrying some vibrato while also reflecting intolerance. It wasn't just intolerance for the emails though. No, she was far more complex than the average woman. She could no longer bear the burdens of her life.

Amongst the terribly long list of emails, there was a single one that seemed to be emphasized. Her eyes found the word babies, registered, recognized, and processed that God awful word before all others. It was her babies-r-us registry confirmation email, sitting nonchalantly within her inbox, jeering at her. She stared blankly at first, but her mind had too swiftly understood it's significance. She dared not move because if she did, she was sure her body would disassemble itself. Worse yet, she felt she might cry, and that was something she would not allow herself. Somewhere in the depths of her soul, she believed that she should not cry because it would draw attention. No, she was never interested in attention. Worse yet, she felt that she didn't deserve the privilege of venting through her tears.

The thought made her sick to her stomach.

. . .

"Give her a CT scan," House ordered with emotional detachment and nonchalance. It was the kind of disconnectedness that could not be fabricated, and it wasn't. Usually, the wise diagnostician avoided establishing connections with his patients. Firstly, because he was somewhat of a sociopath, but secondly because relationships in medicine can only create bias. It might hamper his thinking and counteract his medical training. Meeting the patient and their families could sway medical decisions, blind even the most intellectual of doctors.

"Are you waiting for a formal invitation," the sound of his cane making contact with the floor echoed from wall to wall, "Go!"

Foreman led the group with a slightly peeved expression, and wearing a self-indulgent and partially artificial layer of dignity. It was House's obligation to make him humble, at least until he was to House's standard of a doctor. It was an unspoken obligation, nor was it in House's job description, nor in the fine print. Technically then, it isn't his responsibility at all, but he, in that thick skull of his, perceived it to be so.

Next was Chase, who House glared at. The blonde doctor stiffened, correcting his posture, giving the impression that he was taller, and therefore more confident than he truly was. House could see right through his facade.

Last, trailing slightly behind was the big-hearted, intelligent, and stunning Allison Cameron. Her hair was drawn back, but she had the face and bone structure to support a ponytail, House had always thought. When her hair was down, it was as if she were a different person, not mentally or emotionally. No, she was consistent and firm in her beliefs, which was a respectable quality. When her brown locks were free, draping over the creamy skin of her shoulders, she appeared more youthful, more human.

She strode toward the hall. House strategically lifted his cane so it was parallel to the floor, just in front of Cameron's chest. She stopped short, nearly waltzing into it. "Not you," his eyes were mesmerizing on the surface, the color of water coated by a silver haze.

Cameron sank backward against the doorframe, and House leaned into her. She furrowed her eyebrows, her lips separating as she attempted to find words and somehow express her confusion. There was so much that she could have said, but nothing she could have done to resist what was to follow.

House's eyes were wide, like those of a puppy, and so profoundly blue that he seemed strangely innocent. With those astonishing eyes, he pleaded, boring into her until his lips parted.

The world, sound, light, everything temporarily dissipated until their surrounding became almost too indisputable. Even the lovely Allison Cameron could feel the connection, the need, a need so intense that it was palpable. He nudged her with his cane, shutting the door behind them, leaving the case, the other doctors, and everything else behind.

A distant memory.


	14. Poker Face Part 1

Chapter 14: Poker Face (Part 1 of 2)

All words are merely words, a meaningless arrangement of letters, until they are given a definition. There are relative words, whose definitions depend upon morals, ethics, culture, and perception.

Take the word wrong, for instance. Regarding topics that are highly controversial, there are those who believe the matter being discussed is wrong, while the other half has deemed it otherwise. To some, the death penalty is wrong. It is a matter of opinion, you see, but numerous factors contribute to the belief that the death penalty is wrong.

But what does wrong mean? How could something in the eyes of one be wrong in the eyes of another? Perhaps the definition is obscure, or maybe it has been diluted over the years. How could that be when the definition of the word "wrong" is written in black and white in the dictionary, and it's strength still endures?

Wrong (adj): not correlating with what is morally right or good

There in the definition, is the word moral. Any word that is based upon morals and influence is relative, just as the word wrong. Clearly, the definition itself is hardly specific enough to characterize it. The best way to give a meaning to a contingent word such as wrong is to find its inverse.

While there are those firm in their conviction of the death penalty as wrong, there are others who believe wholeheartedly that it is right, that it is appropriate retribution for certain crimes.

Right (adj): correlating with what is good and proper

So what does wrong really mean? Wrong, as a conditional term, cannot be defined without consideration to the word right. It is as simple as this: wrong would be inexistent without its counterpart, right.

There are words that are created to, or at least attempt to, explain emotion. There are words like sadness, nostalgia, love, happiness, and jealousy. You need not look in the dictionary to give meaning to any of those words, for you have most likely felt them all. It is living these words which gives them their true meaning rather than a sequence of words in a dictionary filled with millions upon millions of various terms.

Lust is just a word.

We have a good understanding of lust as humans. Many of us have been overwhelmed with that intense surge of passion and need that have been branded as lustful.

Lust is merely a term that we comprehend until we have had the opportunity to experience it for ourselves.

Lust (n): intense desire or appetite; lechery

It is sort of funny that such a term is that it carries a negative connotation. The rings of hell are each titled, the second of which has been reserved for those who have resigned to feelings of lust. So clearly, lust must be truly sinful.

Isn't it those instantaneous bursts of ardor that make us human? Isn't it those lustful moments shared between a couple that help to liven the relationship, or help to sustain one that is nearly at its end? In these cases, this craving can rekindle a flame that had nearly diminished, or it can light a candle that was not previously lit.

Is lust really as negative as we perceive it to be?

In moments of vulnerability, some feel the passion welling within them until they are on the brink of insanity. Consequentially, it can lead to cheating, unfaithfulness. That inexplicable explosion of several different feelings all meshed into one can destroy a relationship, tearing two hearts, who were fated to be together, apart.

Any feeling of strength and magnanimity can result in pain, tears, agony, but in other cases, to joy, to enthusiasm, and utter bliss.

Is lust a sinful, or is it the manifestation of humans' longing for happiness?

She had no idea what magnetic source was at work, what magic or magnetic field had drawn her into his office, but whatever it was was surely powerful, irresistible. In fact, she could hardly remember how she had got there. She vaguely remembered smiling politely at someone when they joined her in the elevator, but whether he or she was a staff member, visitor, or patient she could not even remember. Did she even press the button to get to the proper floor? She hadn't the slightest idea.

Lisa Cuddy had walked the corridors with her chin tilted slightly upward, as if she were balancing a pencil at the tip of her nose, proper posture, as of she were royalty, and her hips swaying from one side to the other as if she were hoola-hooping. She was stiff, inhumanly so, and all of these factors propelled her upwards. She was in a position so high that to others she was untouchable, goddess-like. She hardly felt like it, though.

She stood in front of the door, for a moment, trying to recall her motivation, as well as her physical journey there. It had only taken her a matter of seconds to thrust the thought aside and twist the doorknob. Although she generally considered knocking, it hadn't crossed her mind.

Grief had hardly been a catalyst towards making Cuddy cold and impolite. That was more of House's deal. It hadn't really changed her outlook on the world, though it made her question plenty. It hadn't morphed her into a cold, cruel woman. She cared far too much for others to ever be so detached. It was simply a lapse of memory, a dazed state which she was in that caused her to simply waltz through the door.

With minimal effort, she stepped into his room, her heels making that familiar clicking noise as it pressed against the tile. Her eyes were fixed on the chair, as she had purposely avoided eye contact at first, and she eased herself into one of the chairs conscientiously correcting her slightly slouched posture.

Wilson breathed in, slightly surprised by his boss' sudden entrance, but slightly happy about her arrival nonetheless. He folded his hands in front of him on his desk before daring to look up at the woman, taking note of her hair, the way it fell perfectly, and her makeup, that highlighted her eyes and made her lips seem to jut out that much more. It was then that she glanced up at him, and he could look into her eyes. They were empty, glazed over by a coat of artificial contentment, but beneath was the slightest hint of vulnerability.

Cuddy crossed her ankles, "I got an email that said Dr. Freehold was taking a leave of absence. Dr. Schwartz from Riner Hospital is filling in."

He nodded, "Freehold had a surgery scheduled for this week. We're short-staffed here in oncology for a few weeks."

"Which is why I called Schwartz. He's a good surgeon."

The oncologist leaned forward in his chair, "Thanks for the consideration."

"It's my job," she shot back, internally slightly offended, as if he thought her incapable of doing her job after this entire incident.

"Is there something you need to talk about," he initiated the conversation, slightly unsettled by the silence.

She shrugged, then met his gaze again, "I don't know why I'm here," she shook her head.

"Thank you for the boost of confidence," he took the paper in front of him between his fingers and pushed it aside, "It's good to know how much you value our relationship."

At first, she looked at him testily, but then she lightened, her expression growing apologetic. "When it comes down to it I'm your boss first," she asserted, "but that doesn't mean you haven't been here through a hell of a lot more than just business."

"Then why are we talking about business," he questioned.

She folded her arms over her chest, her blazer wrinkling at the crook of her forearms. "Because that's why I came here. I assumed you'd want to know whether there's a surgeon for your department."

"You just said you didn't know why you were here," he rested his forearms on his desk, and Cuddy sighed. "You kinda look like there's something you need to say."

Cuddy shut her eyes, waiting a few seconds before bothering to open them again. "I know this isn't easy for you," he told her sympathetically.

"What," she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, "Being back at work, pretending nothing happened," he gestured with his hand as if literally reaching for the right word, "everything."

"I'm breathing," she replied in a monotone.

He grimaced, his forehead wrinkling, "Even that's not easy. I- I'm sorry, Cuddy."

She threw her arms up, the folded them over her chest again, and she but her lip contemplatively, "I should have seen it coming."

"How could you have?" Her eyes flickered to the ceiling, but her eyelids fell shut again and she breathed a loud exhale. "You did everything right," she growled internally, wondering why it was that she could have a child taken from her when she "did everything right."

"Even that wasn't enough."

He furrowed his eyebrows at her, "You've got no reason to feel guilty."

"I'm not," she responded emptily, looking toward the floor. Her eyes scanned the ivory carpet.

"I know you too well to believe that." Her head bobbed slightly up and down, "I'll move on," she admitted.

He leaned slightly back, "Of course you will."

"I just don't know when," she rested her forehead in her palms, shaking her head. Her shoulders bent forward as she unwound, just enough to appear human again. She was nothing short of a walking dead woman lately.

He gazed at her apologetically, "It's never going to go away, but you're never going to get over it if you do what you always do," he tried explaining, receiving a skeptical look. He tried to convey his thoughts in a way that wasn't inconsiderately honest, but still effective, "You can't just bottle it up like you always do. This isn't one of your arguments with House or like losing a patient. It's," he stuttered, "different."

Her lids drooped slightly, "I can tell."

He tilted his head, "Obviously it's a different feeling, but you're treating it the same as every other situation."

She considered his point, reflecting on past experience. He was completely right, but at the same time, she had no choice but to deal with in the way she always did. "You're gonna have a heart attack from all the stress you put yourself through."

"I'm not stressed," she sat up straighter.

Wilson stared incredulously, "You live in a world of stress. Not to mention you're Dean of Medicine and," he stuttered again, "and you're Cuddy." He calmed himself, "You can't bottle this up."

She said nothing more, standing from her seat and walking toward the door. Wilson followed her, beating her to the door and standing in front of it. He leaned in, closing the distance between them.

. . .

Cameron's stern expression didn't falter, though her nervousness was obvious. She swallowed hard and her heart pounded in her chest, so loudly that she heard it in her ears.

"I should," she struggled to find words, as frantically as someone who is drowning struggling for air, "go do the CT scan."

He bowed his head slightly to look into her eyes, stoop down to her level, both physically and metaphorically, "I need you to help me with something."

Cameron was taken back, nervous as to what he was referring, but also concerned that he had reached such a level of humility. He had strung together the words "I need you to help me" completely free of sarcasm.

He glanced over both his shoulders, and then locked the door, fumbling at the knob with his fingers. He looked at her expectantly, inching closer, awaiting a response. She was hesitant, but she regarded him carefully, knowing what he had just been through. She nodded slowly.

"This is between you and I," he widened his eyes to affirm his statement. "Understand?"

A breath caught in her throat, but she somehow found her voice, "Have you been taking Vicodin? Or drinking?" She didn't accuse because she feared the effect it would have. Instead, she asked concernedly, like the honest, caring, too sympathetic person that she was at heart.

"You cannot blab to Chase or Foreman, or Wilson," he continued his previous thought, ignoring her questions. "You especially can't tell Cuddy." She gulped, her face blanching. "It's like Vegas. What we're about to do in here, stays in here."

"Dr. House I don't-", she blurted out clumsily, only to be cut off.

He gestured with his cane for her to take a seat, and she did so after a moment or two of consideration.

"Cuddy's not telling me something, and you need to figure out what the heck it is she doesn't want me to know."

Her head tilted instinctively, "And you can't figure it out?" That fact nearly caused her jaw to drop.

"Do I have a sign on my back that says "interrogate me" because that's all you've done since you've been in here." She made no attempt to respond, "And because you and Cuddy are the same species, I need you to get it out of her."

With her hands in blades, she smoothed the front of her lab coat, then rested her hands in her lap, "Cuddy and I are nothing alike."

"You're the only one on the team with breasts and that might possibly look decent in a low-cut too," he retorted, and she rolled her eyes, "And Cuddy wouldn't trust Foreman." House whispered, "I wouldn't either. The man was a criminal."

Cameron added, "And Chase?"

House looked at her patronizingly, "He's even dumber than he looks."

"As flattering as it is that you picked me over the criminal and the idiot, I don't want to get involved with you and Cuddy."

He sighed and averted his gaze to the side, "I need to know what she's hiding. Think of it as a case."

She tucked a strand of chocolate brown hair behind her ear, "This isn't a case."

He narrowed his eyes, "It isn't. It's more important." Her expression softened because in that moment, she could see exactly how important this, and ultimately Cuddy, was to him. It reminded her that House had emotions, despite what everyone else thought.

She thought in silence.

. . .

Closer still he moved.

Cuddy thought in silence.


	15. Poker Face Part II

Author's Note: I'm sorry this update took a while, but I hope you enjoy! Thank you for the reviews and views. Without them, I would have no reason to continue. Here it is, Poker Face Part II!

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Poker Face Part II

There is a point in life when you will need help. Actually, there ate thousands, from reaching the items on the top shelf, or asking for further explanation on a math problem. It happens. It happens every day. Try to count how many times a day you seek the assistance of others so that you can properly complete a single or several tasks.

It is a stupefying and eyeopening experiment, to number the amount of help you require, or sometimes simply insist upon requesting without true "need."

Some need more than others.

There are those who have financial troubles, those who file for unemployment, those who receive their monthly social security check because they've retired, those who borrow money from family, friends, and/or coworkers to make rent each month. Some foreclose on their houses in a scramble for those slips of green paper which leave so much damage in their wake. After all, money is simply stupid, flimsy pieces of paper with nothing to back them up, no gold standard. Just paper. There are people who file for bankruptcy. They claim they they are unable to pay, that they cannot afford to live their lives anymore, which is a pity in itself, the way the world functions. The world revolves around materialism. People are vain. They always have been, since the beginning of time. They most likely always will be.

There are those who need emotional help and guidance. Those are the people who employ therapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists. Psychological ailments force their victims to seek help, if they are logical enough to acknowledge that they need the help. Therapy is so common nowadays, and it saves lives, offers aid to those who bear immense burdens upon their shoulders, who live in a state of suffering. It is incredible that there is help for even those who deem their own body a prison.

Some need physical assistance, those who are temporarily or permanently injured, those who are handicapped. Have you ever assisted an elderly person? Walked an old woman down the street, and then reflected on how cliche it was? Have you ever held your friend's books when he/she broke her ankle and had to carry him/herself on crutches? Everyday we see those who have handicaps, whether they are young or old, blind, deaf, Caucasian, African American, Asian, European, Hispanic, a sufferer of a chronic illness, a cancer survivor, a veteran, or an injured athlete. You might even have a handicap of your own. No matter, in the world there are thousands who need physical help, some to complete every day activities, some for their entire lives, some for a few months, and some who are fortunate enough to need none whatsoever. It is usually those who are the helpers.

For every time you are helped, you often end up helping another. This is a cycle which makes the world go round. It is also where sympathy and empathy come into play, both of which are gray areas, as they deal with the human emotional spectrum.

After all this discussion of help, the helpers, and the helped, we come to our protagonists again. There are those who cannot and will not, even if they were in desperate need, ask for help. They might deny their problems, might be too stubborn to acknowledge them or admit them to others, might be too vain to see any faults within themselves, or maybe they just don't know how. Any of these sound like the two focal points of our story? No? Yes? Either way, this breed is fairly common. You may not have previously considered their species, or realized its existence, but now that I have exposed them, do consider. Heck, you might perfectly fit the mold.

Think of the people you live with, work with, go to school with. Think of your family, foes, friends. Try and pinpoint that person, there's at least one. How many times have they blatantly asked for help? Anyone of this breed rarely does. In fact, you can probably count the number of times they've requested help on a single hand.

Just something to consider.

Eventually, though, people reach that point where if they do not receive help, find the words to ask for it, that they will lose their lives, themselves, those around them, or a combination, if not all, of the above.

After leaving Wilson's office, pivoting and shutting the door with a thoughtless flick of her wrist, Cuddy walked toward the clinic, or perhaps strutted would be the proper term. To the outside world she had not lost that untouchable confidence in the "incident." In fact, it seemed she even walked slightly taller than before, with her shoulders somehow aligned even more perfectly. All of it was a conscious decision, and therefore not a reflection of what was within. But nobody saw that.

She greeted the nurse at the desk, bowing her head towards her before grabbing the clipboard from the counter. The metal clip was faded and worn, the silver not quite so metallic anymore. She let out a breath, feeling pity for the aged clipboard, then set it down after carelessly scanning the check-in list.

Finding that nothing could distract her from her own inner agony, she sat behind the desk, flipping through paperwork, forms, and other dull information that might provide a slight reprieve. Instead, she found her mind wandering back toward Wilson, the way he had placed a hand gingerly on her shoulder. With that, he made her human again, made the emotions woman feel that terrible pain and those "nonexistent" emotions.

He had forced her down to human level, to his own. Neither had said a word, but just his touch brought back so much feeling. The numbness in her chest had began to fade, but she immediately seeker the anesthetic state again, clinging to it.

She had looked up at him, pleading silently with her blue eyes, so blue that they could put the sky to shame. That single look humanized her even more so, and Wilson withdrew his arm, knowing he had reminded her of who she was: a human. Then she had left.

At the clinic desk she felt that wave of reality wash over her, hit hard and then gently withdraw.

"Dr. Cuddy."

She thumbed through the sheets of paper, picturing that knowing expression the oncologist wore. She questioned his intentions in reminding her of her loss, but she knew they were only good. She knew he had only stopped her at the door to be supportive, to place a hand on her shoulder to show her that it would be okay, that she was breathing, living.

"Dr. Cuddy."

She stopped on one of the papers in the center of the pile, feigning interest, but her thoughts had strayed too far from work to return back to it anytime soon.

"Excuse me, Dr. Cuddy." Cuddy's head snapped up as she awoke from her dazed condition, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Cameron said. Her eyebrows were furrowed inquisitively, as she too was now interested in Cuddy's thought process, her life, how she was really feeling.

"Can I help you," she asked expectantly, apparently irritated. She placed the paperwork down, leaning back in her chair.

Cameron tucked a stray strand of her luscious brown hair behind her ear, "I was wondering if you and I could talk," she paused, glimpsing around, "alone."

The older of the women considered, then looked to the paperwork again as if she'd actually been reading it in the first place, "Can it wait?"

"It's kind of important," she replied with the nod of her head, her glasses drifting slowly down the bridge of her nose.

"Meet me in my office in ten minutes," the Dean of Medicine sighed, and Cameron went away, thankfully not lingering. Cuddy just needed time to think. Well, technically, she wanted time to distract herself from thinking too seriously. It was all so illogical, but somehow logical to her.

. . .

House sat, reclined in his black leather chair, tossing a tennis ball against the wall and catching it on return. Toss, bounce, catch. Toss, bounce, catch. In his grip, out of his grip, and then in his grip again. Safe in his palms, flying, hitting the wall, flying, and returning to safety again.

His eyes followed the fluorescent object. His thoughts didn't. Gregory House was too complex of a creature to focus his attention on such an inconsequential task. No, instead he ruminated about the patient, about Cuddy, about the meaning of life.

"CT scans of her head are negative for tumors," Foreman interrupted, pushing the door open, Chase following just behind him. House's eyes didn't stray from the little sphere, and he continued throwing it and watching it ricochet back towards him.

He was silent at first, until he pressed his team on the issue, "And everything else?"

Foreman watched his boss, his stern expression never wavering, "Clean. No abnormalities."

House nodded, gripping the tennis ball tightly so his knuckles went white from the tension. He bounced the ball beside him with one hand and picked up his legs to rest them on the table. His dull black shoes were painfully dark in comparison to the wooden table beneath them.

A familiar, and agitating series of beeps erupted simultaneously. Chase and Foreman reached inside their pockets, "Patient's being moved to the ICU." House didn't bother to acknowledge Foreman's statement, he just swiveled his chair to watch as they hurriedly left the room to see their forgetful eighteen year old in the intensive care unit.

He glanced over at the board, reading the symptoms sore throat and memory loss several times before turning and beginning to toss the ball again.

Then Cuddy came to his mind. The discussion between them lately wasn't any more or less than usual, but it was empty. The conversation was of no particular significance, concerned no human emotion. That was never House's forte, but Cuddy was always able to influence him towards sappy, emotional talking. Now, even she denied all feeling, went numb.

It was startling, frightening even. He half-thought that he had lost her.

. . .

Cuddy, now at her own desk, held more meaningful paperwork between her fingers, but still she couldn't bring herself to read any of it. Her eyes flashed between her email and the paperwork, and then the phone, as if she were expecting an important business call.

Dr. Cameron walked in with intention, Cuddy noticed the look, the look of someone with a mission to be accomplished. She almost looked as if she pitied Cuddy, while respecting her at the same time. It was a confusing exchange between the two of them, and the peculiarity of it all did not go unnoticed. How could it have? There was no shortage of functional brain cells in the institution.

"I wanted to know if there's anything I can do for you. I know," Cameron introduced, a poor choice as to how to start their conversation. She looked slightly nervous. Her hands moved in her pockets and the words did not flow so smoothly from her lips.

Cuddy corrected her posture and breathed in, "What did House tell you?" She clicked her pen, looking up to meet the other woman's gaze, staring firmly in her direction.

Cameron's had to resist admitting everything to Cuddy, confessing all the she and House had schemed. But she somehow held up, remembering the look on House's face and in that moment being able to glimpse into his psyche. They had anticipated Cuddy seeing trough her first statement. House knew Cuddy well enough to predict that.

"Nothing."

"Don't play games with me," her hair bounced the slightest bit at each curl, "because I'll always win."

She stepped toward the chair across from her boss' boss and leaned against it, "He said that I should talk to you about getting a flat screen in his office, not that I think he even needs it," she added cleverly, making her story seem that much more believable.

Cuddy rolled her eyes instinctively, "That's low even for House." She shook her head, "To try and get something out of me at a time-," she cut herself off, needing not say anymore having already said too much.

"He threatened my job," she explained herself, and Cuddy merely nodded, "but I know it's not fair to you, especially not now." She looked to the floor, "and I want to tell you how sorry I am. I know what you must be going through. I mean I don't personally know the feeling," she added clumsily, "but..." She trailed off.

The other woman looked away as well, averting her gaze to her computer screen, appearing very preoccupied, "Thank you for the concern, and you can go tell House that he can have his flat screen." Cameron tilted her head in confusion. "When hell freezes over," Cuddy continued.

The younger doctor's head bobbed up and down somberly, as she wasn't too effected by the dry humor, not when she had other motives, "I know I'm just an employee and we haven't been close, but I'm a woman just like you, and I know what it's like to have a lot of feelings. And I know House," she deadpanned, "I don't know what it's like to go through what you just went through, but I think you should give me a chance and talk about it." She sat in the chair now, looking at her sternly to show she would not move, but sympathetically.

"Dr. Cameron," Cuddy started, still just as closed minded as a minute before.

Cameron fixed herself, pressing out a wrinkle in her pants, "I'm going to get fired if you don't talk to me about it," she lied.

"Is that what this is about? I should have known the flat screen excuse was just a ploy" She huffed, "Still, I can't imagine House caring about emotions." She threw her arms up, "It doesn't matter. I'll rehire you. My hospital, my doctors, my people." The Dean of Medicine asserted her authority, reminding the doctor exactly who she was, how much power she had.

Cameron explained, "But I want to stay on the team," she pleaded, "It's up to you if I keep my job."

Cuddy contemplated, her breathing even, but her expression softer than it had been, "There's nothing to be said about any of this. Tell House that," she paused, "and if he wants to talk to me he can run over here and talk to me. Well, he can limp over here and talk to me about it."

Cameron sighed, sitting straighter, "He told me he tried, which is why he sent me, because I'm the one on the team who cares about and has feelings. And I do care about yours," she pursed her lips, "which why I'm kind of happy he sent me and not Foreman. If I can help in any way-"

The Dean stifled a laugh, "Isn't this how we started this conversation?" The other woman considered and then nodded.

"We're not finishing this conversation until you tell me what House wants to know about what you're not telling him, or you refuse to tell me and watch me lose my job."

"I'm not letting him fire you," she answered honestly, "I own his ass. I pay him, and there are plenty of benefits that I could take away from him."

Cameron laughed slightly now, "So you're going to start wearing turtle necks?" Cuddy thought seriously, "I could do that."

"I really do want to help," Cameron responded softly.

"I just told you that you're job is safe. Get to work," she shooed her with the motion of her hand.

The light pouring in through the window dimmed as the sun passed behind a cloud. "I know," Cameron told her, "but my offer still stands."

"I'm fine," Cuddy assured her, "Get out of my office." She smiled slightly at the end, making her last command lighthearted. They seemed to have come to an understanding.

Cameron left, curious and sympathetic to what was really going on with the grieving woman. Her job had never been in danger, but House would not like the fact she had been unsuccessful in her mission. She walked into his office, her head tilted down, ready to recap exactly what had occurred.

She had offered help, so clearly Cuddy was not one who simply did not know how to ask for help, otherwise she would have taken the offer. Lisa Cuddy was either in denial of her pain, too stubborn to admit it, or too vain. Which it was, the entire world could probably guess.

* * *

Does that clarify a lot? I know I left you all slightly confused, so I hope you all feel a little better now that you're not completely hanging from a cliff this week. There is still one major question, but I'll leave that one to be answered later!


	16. Come Clean Part 1

Chapter 16: Come Clean Part 1

Water boils at precisely one hundred degrees Celsius. At this temperature, the hydrogen bonds between the two hydrogen molecules and the single oxygen are broken. Water is a polar molecule, which translates most basically to "water has opposite charges at opposite sides of the molecule." It can bare any temperature between freezing and boiling point, but the moment it reaches 100 degrees, it's bonds are broken and the molecule separates into its atoms.

This happens with all molecules. There are intense forces that hold atoms together. There are ionic bonds, which are the bonds between cations and anions, or positively and negatively charged atoms. There are covalent bonds between two non metals, like in water. There are metallic bonds between two metals.

Sodium chloride, written as NaCl, is bonded ionically because sodium, Na, is a cation, or a positive charge. Because it is positively charged, it wants to get rid of its electrons so that it may fill its valence. Once it's valence level is full, it is stable, like the noble gases, which are group 8 elements. Chlorine, the Cl in NaCl, is a group 7 element. It is in group seven, yet wants to be in group eight, therefore it is negatively charged and needs to gain an electron in order to fulfill its valence and become stable. Chemical processes with bonds are all focused upon earning stability, reaching their equilibrium.

Each of these these bonds, these extremely powerful forces can be broken when disturbed enough, when heated to such temperatures that even they cannot withstand them.

In continuation with this idea, that chemistry's focal point is balance, there are chemical reactions. There are several kinds of reactions. There are synthesis reactions, during which to or more simple compounds combine to form a single compound. Next are decomposition reactions, which do the exact opposite of synthesis. In decomposition reactions, a complex compound is broken down into simpler ones by means of heat. There are single displacement reactions, which describes the process of an element trading places within a compound. In correlation with single replacements, there are double replacement reactions to describe when two products trade places. Lastly, there are combustion reactions, which are, conceivably, the most complex. In combustion reactions, oxygen combines with another compound to form water and carbon dioxide.

K (s) + S (g) - K2S (aq)

That reaction is a synthesis reaction. When solid potassium is combined with sulfur gas, aqueous potassium sulfide is formed. Aqueous simply means it dissolves in water, which is true because potassium is an alkali metal. Take a look at the numbers, though. There is a single potassium atom on the right and two on the left. The equation above is, therefore, unbalanced. To balance this equation, there must be two potassium atoms on the left. The balanced chemical equation is as follows:

2K (s) + S (g) - K2S (aq)

Now, are two potassium atoms on the left and right and a sulfur atom on each side.

It is balanced. The world, at its most simplest form, is all about finding balance. In the search for balance, so much can go wrong, so much that even when bonds form they are broken when molecules, and people, reach their boiling point.

"That all you've got," he asked angrily, the tension becoming most noticeable in his jaw.

Cameron flinched, seeing the disappointment in his eyes, those blue skies teeming with ominous gray clouds. She looked to her feet, "She's not the type to involve work with her personal life," she paused, "except for you."

The diagnostician stared at the whiteboard of symptoms, which had grown. Their forgetful patient with a cough was periodically fainting. Surely, loss of consciousness was not encouraging that she was healing. He shut his eyes, swiveling in his chair so that he was no longer facing his subordinate, "Did you not realize that before," he yelled toward the wall, "I sent you to sweet talk the information out of her, which is why you went and not Chase. If I wanted information that I already knew, I would have sent Chase, and Foreman if I needed something stolen."

"She's closed off. It's like she turned into you," she gestured toward her boss as her own frustration intensified.

He squinted toward the whiteboard, "Yeah, but with a better ass and a larger stick up it."

"She's uptight and wants perfection. You're just a jerk, so the one with the bigger stick up their ass is you."

He turned in his chair, glaring at the woman who nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, "She knew I was an ass when she hired me. You knew I was a jerk when you applied for the job. It isn't my fault you women can't keep yourself from me and my boyish charm," he stroked his stubble.

"If you don't figure out how to act like a decent boyfriend, Cuddy's not going to care about your boyish charm anymore. She's hurting and it's your job to figure her out. Not mine," she annunciated the last two words sharply, but her expression spoke of sympathy for the man. At the same time, she felt obligated to lead him in the right direction. After all, she was the more experienced of the two with emotions and relationships.

He seemed slightly surprised, but also somber, "Then go do your job." His directive was hardly powerful and commanding. Instead, it left his lips as more of a suggestion. Cameron breathed out, her wiry glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose. Then, she left, turning and walking down the hall. As she walked, she was overcome with a sense of numbness. For some reason, she cared for House on an emotional level, and seeing him so lost, so hurt, was painful, even for her.

House watched the woman leave and eyed the symptoms, unable to concentrate on the mystery of his patient. He found his thoughts wandering to Cuddy time and time again. In one swift motion, he withdrew four Vicodin from the fluorescent orange bottle in his pocket and popped them into his mouth. He swallowed gently, so accustomed to the feeling of the monstrous pills sliding down his throat.

. . .

"The first time we got into a relationship, do you remember what I told you," she scoffed to herself, "Why would you?"

House laid back on the couch, his hands clasped supporting his head, "Of course I do. You said no touching your ass at work."

She snorted, "And you still do that!" Then, the administrator sighed to herself, running her manicured fingers through her hair. In turn, she loosened her curls and they gradually wound back to their original positions. "I said I didn't want our relationship to get dragged into work, or vise versa. And look," she motioned with her arms, "that's exactly what you do! You bring our problems into work, and make my employees try to get information out of me!"

Out of habit, House massaged his leg with his palm, pressing down on the spot where a muscle once was, "Actually, I sent an employee to get information out of you, not to try.

She just happened to fail-" he rambled sarcastically, in a calm tone.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy barked, her words like whips, beating against his skin. Her usually flawless white skin had grown three tones redder, and her eyes were wide to further emphasize her rage, "I'm not just one of your cases. Is that what I am to you? A mystery? I'm just so damn complicated that you want to spend all your time figuring me out. Is that what I mean to you?"

He pondered, reflecting upon himself, though he already knew that was hardly the case. He was in love with her for her intricacy, her intelligence and competence. She was so much more than a puzzle, though she was always somewhat of an enigma to him. But unlike a case, he knew that he would never fully comprehend what made Cuddy tick, and that wasn't irritating or daunting. Instead, it was encouraging. He knew that if he were to devote himself to a single person, it would be Lisa Cuddy. She was the challenge that he would never be too weary to fight for. "No," he answered, "You're a mystery with great breast and too many opinions."

Her eyes were streaked with red lines from the stress, and the blood vessels threatened to burst. House couldn't determine if it was anger coursing through her veins, or sadness, or some incomprehensible combination of both. "You're an ass," she shook her head in absolute disgust, "You're a miserable ass hole who takes his problems out on everyone."

"Mostly on you," he retorted nonchalantly, changing the channel.

She craned her neck to see the TV screen, utterly disappointed to see his show of choice was a soap opera, "Do you not see that I haven't been in the mood for your crap, all the shit you put me through?"

"I thought you were just PMSing, " the doctor responded, trying to avoid looking in her eyes. He feared if he did, he may turn to stone.

Cuddy spat back at him fiercely, "Go to hell."

"I think I missed the heaven boat already," he reached forward to grab his beer, drinking nearly all of it, "It isn't my fault you can't seem to get over yourself. You want your life back, but you can't get over the fact that your kid's dead. He's not coming back, so you're either gonna find a way to bring the dead to life, get over it, or suffer." He whispered, "You should probably try the second one."

"Get out," she screamed toward him, but he remained in his seat, taking another, smaller, swig from his beer can. "Fine," she let her arms fall to her sides, "Goodbye, House." The door slammed shut as she left, taking nothing with her.

House sat emptily, his eyes focused lazily on the television while his mind wandered into realms distant. He could think of nothing but Cuddy, as always. Ironically, they were truly perfect for one another, which in itself created problems. They each had the same tactic to help themselves cope, to edge each other away.

It can work when one person edges their partner away, for if the partner cares enough, they will find a way to bring them back together. When two people distance themselves, it accomplishes nothing more than what it's name indicates, creating distance. The two had lost touch, and Cuddy was too involved in her own thoughts to see it. House, on the other hand, was too observant to not see that he was slowly losing her. At the same time, he was unable to find the proper words to tell her, to lure her back in. So the couple was going nowhere, and going nowhere fast.

Although the diagnostician was a jerk with a God complex, he was also right about most things. He was right about Cuddy being unable to let go, and the perpetual state of grief she would feel. The sad part: she knew it too. She already felt doomed to a life of misery because of her desperate need for perfection. Each time she came close, so close to faultless that she could practically taste it, her happiness was torn out from under her.

The world seemed to be inverted and all was wrong. Everything hurt, from waking in the morning to breathing to working and going to sleep every night. Both were hurting, dying inside, trying to fix the unfixable: themselves. They were too broken for complete repair, but maybe, just maybe, if they helped one another they would be much closer to pristine. Life just kept separating them.

House remained deep in thought, and even the thoughts running through his mind taunted him. He wanted to cover his ears, hit himself in the head, anything to make himself stop thinking. Two Vicodin crept down his throat, washed down with the last sip of beer. He was grateful when he found sleep and drifted off into unconsciousness.

. . .

The thunder reverberated through the house, rousing the diagnostician from his REM. He could hardly register what had occurred, or perhaps he registered so much that he was simply in denial. She had walked out, and he could guess she had no intention on returning any time soon.

He glanced at the television and switched the channel to something more entertaining, but even that couldn't keep his attention for more than a few seconds. There were three consecutive flashes of lightning within the same moment, and then the thunder broke loudly, echoing at a deafening level. The rain pelted against the windows, pounding more loudly than House could bear. The sounded was that of hammers, and he increased the volume on the TV, hoping to drown out the sound of the raindrops.

The winds whipped and beat the shudders, and as the storm worsened, so did House's mood. He had suddenly attained a conscience, or so it seemed. There was a voice in his head nagging him that Cuddy could be out in that weather.

When he glanced out the window, he saw her car parked in the driveway, though. The only only problem was that she didn't appear to be in it. With a burst of adrenaline and enough will power to move mountains, the man threw the remote to the side and ran out into the storm, his leg causing him agonizing pain.

The car was empty, and he looked left and then right, unable to tell which direction she could have gone. It had been nearly three hours since she left, and the sheets of rain were so thick that he could hardly see two feet in front of him. Deciding that limping would get him nowhere, on top of the fact that Cuddy had a three hour head start, he seated himself in the car, twisting the key in the ignition with unfathomable speed. Even with the windshield wipers on full power and his high beams on, there was no seeing in front of him.

At first he drove aimlessly, hopelessly in search of a petite brunette with a heart so big that her own ability to empathize was nothing short of a fatal flaw. He saw nothing, no trace of people on the streets. Who would be in weather so dangerous at nearly midnight.

In the sky, the moon was a mere sliver, and the stars seemed so far out of reach. House thought to himself, carelessly turning the steering wheel and straining his eyes to see in front of him.

"Where the hell are you, Cuddy," he asked aloud. He squinted, considering, just as he would when solving a case. It didn't help that he was slightly inebriated and consumed five Vicodin throughout the course of the day, but he had no other option. He needed to find her.

Then, it hit him, hard and fast, like a pitch to his gut. His heart raced with the epiphany, and he jerked the car to the left, speeding toward the place he knew Cuddy would be. He peeled into the driveway, half driving, half hydro-planing. His breaks squealed from the pressure, as House shoved them down with all his might.

* * *

Author's Note: Where could Cuddy be? Are she and House so distant that there's no need for them to be together? Could a loss tear them apart. Who wants to read the next chapter? I'll update by Wednesday if I get over 10 reviews. It didn't seem like many liked last weeks chapter. I hope you enjoyed this one a little more! Just a few chapters left. Do you want Huddy to stay together?


	17. Come Clean Part II

Come Clean Part II

They say that you never know what you've got until it's gone. Do you really know something's worth until it's taken from you. You might know its cost or price, or how much effort it took you to earn it, but is it possible to fully understand its worth in your heart until you can no longer have it?

It has become common for us humans to take advantage of what we have. Worse yet, not only do we take our blessings for granted, but we get greedy sometimes, wishing that we had more money or more possessions. We're all slightly materialistic. We have that innate desire to gain, to elevate our position, whether it be socially, or physically, or intellectually. It is this desire that drives us to do things, pushes us forward, helps us to evolve.

It's the same way with people. You can never fully understand a family member's worth and how large a place they inhabited in your heart until they are no longer. You can never fully appreciate the bond you share with your cousins until they move away and you are forced to live without them. There's no way that you can comprehend how large of an impact your friends have on your life until you all go off to college, of the military, or to work and go weeks, if not months without seeing each other.

How can you see someone's value when they're always around and at your disposal. When you live with your siblings, you might want to pull each other's hair out. You might get on each other's nerves to the point that you're on the absolute brink of insanity. That day you're finally able to move out is liberating. You sigh with relief over the fact that your siblings can't ride your nerves anymore. Just weeks later, though, the homesickness sets in, and you want nothing more than to hear your sister yelling at you to shut up or your brother's obnoxious music blaring in the other room.

It's not until your dog runs away that you recognize the bond you shared. It's not until he or she is gone that you miss the sound of his bark or the way he would sprawl out on your bed.

Or how about that uncle or aunt of yours that used to live just across town. It wasn't until he/she enlisted in the army and was sent to fight in the war that you started thinking about him/her.

You never know what you've got until it's gone seems like a bit of an understatement now, doesn't it?

Every day House and Cuddy took advantage of one another, of the fact that they were always there. Even before they were dating, before the fell asleep and woke up beside one another, they were able to take one another for granted. No matter what, they knew there would always be work tomorrow, and that they would both be there in their respective offices, doing their respective jobs.

Now that he had only a hunch where Cuddy could be, the panic set in. And House didn't need her to leave to understand how much she meant to him. He already knew.

In the distance House could make out the silhouette of a woman. She was sitting on a metal bench, saturated, her head in her hands and her body hunched over unnaturally. Up above, the stars seemed to have faded away, and the moon was a bright white sphere. It had been just she and the moon. She didn't bother to look up, even though she heard the car and the deafening screeching of the brakes.

House threw the door open and limped towards her, letting out an internal sigh. He didn't slow until he was inches in front of her, staring down at the seemingly lifeless woman.

The rain assaulted both of them, breaking on contact with their skin. House looked behind the bench, behind Cuddy, at the familiar sign. The location was quaint and charming, or so it had been before. Now it haunted the two of them each time they passed it. The lightning illuminated the building every so often, and House squinted to make out the letters on the sign.

It was just a boutique to the naked eye. It was hardly just a boutique to Lisa Cuddy.

It was the place where Cuddy had practically lived for the past five months, the place that reminded her of what God had given her, but now jabbed at her. It had become the place that reminded her of all that God had taken away. This wasn't like the other times. Naturally, the fact that she couldn't get pregnant hurt her. It felt like she had taken a bullet to her heart. So when she had finally been granted that opportunity, the chance to become a mother, she felt complete. Her life had fallen into place.

To come so close, though, and then have the thought and the baby itself torn from her was that much more painful. It felt like she had been stabbed, and the knife was being twisted. She didn't know how to make that unbearable pain go away. She didn't know that it ever would.

The frigid drops of rain raced downward still, pattering against the bench on which Cuddy sat.

House turned his from the sight of that store. It reminded him too much of the son he had lost, but even more so, of Cuddy's happiness. He would never outwardly admit it, but he basked in the warmth that his girlfriend exuded when she was carrying their baby. The thought alone of a woman like her bearing his child was one that never ceased to amaze him. He missed the woman she was before that tragic night. He missed that glow, that inexplicable light that she gave off. He loved her, and although sometimes it might seem otherwise, he only wanted her to be happy.

Unaware as to what to say, or how to say it, House stood for a few minutes, listening to the booming thunder and periodically looking up into the store window, seeing rows upon rows of cribs and strollers. He swallowed hard, as if literally digesting the tormenting sight. "Cuddy," he spoke, loudly enough so that she would hear him, but still somehow soft in tone.

She didn't respond. Her breathing was steady, and she buried her head further into her hands. Her hair was matted down by the rain, and her curls hungrily drank the water and grew limp from the excess weight.

It was a long time before any more words were spoken.

For what are you to say when the love of your life is falling to pieces? What are you to say when you've fallen with them?

There's no way for a broken person to fix another. How could you make someone better if you cannot heal yourself? Yet somehow, a sociopathic diagnostician and an emotionally damaged dean of medicine ended up with one another, both broken. What's even better is that these two damaged people live to help others; they ended up as doctors.

What could they do to help one another? There is nothing they could do. From the start, they were doomed to fail it seems. Their relationship could never work if they were too preoccupied with fixing the other to help themselves. House could do nothing but try.

"Cuddy," he addressed her more softly. She shook her head, refusing to pull her hands away from her face.

How can you cure an untreatable disease? How can you make an irreparable wound fade away?

You can't.

House reached out, grazing Cuddy's fingers before trying to pry her hand from her cheek. He stroked them with his thumb, tugging at her arm gently, persuasively.

It was only a matter of time before she surrendered. She let her arms fall to her sides and corrected her posture, standing up with a stern, fixed expression on her face.

Her eyes were ablaze. It was the first thing he noticed. The fire inside of her was at its peak, too hot to be contained, and it manifested itself in her irises. The flames were more intense than anything he'd ever seen, but behind the embers and sky high flares was a sadness so profound he had only seen it in one person before: himself.

Two broken people fit because they are one in the same. But how can two emotionally unstable individuals last? How can such a relationship work? Wouldn't it too be broken.

She had been crying. The whites of her eyes looked as if they'd been scribbled on by red crayon. House could only imagine how painfully red they would be in the light. Her hair was flat to her scalp, her tendrils weighted down, darkened by the moisture.

Still, she maintained her dignity. She managed to scrounge up every bit of confidence she could and gave a look of such power that he wondered if God himself had bestowed that strength upon her. He couldn't match that hostility, rage, and anguish. Not now. He could never convey them all so strongly at the same time, nor did he make the attempt. That look, that unforgettable look, said all he needed to know.

"Go," she demanded from behind clenched teeth, her tone commanding and loud. But he refused, his feet planted firmly in place and his love for her holding him there in spirit. He neared closer to her.

"Leave me alone, House," she put her hands up in front of her defensively.

Her voice shook, whether it was from the cold or the pent up frustration the usually analytical man couldn't tell. "I can't stand you," she spat, annunciating each word, making the sentence more sharp and venomous than a cobra's fangs. "And I can't do this anymore", she threatened, but he was unaffected. He saw through it. Her words were hardly an expression of what was happening on the inside, and he knew her enough to see that. He knew her enough to know that it could never really be over between them. That flame would never die out.

"Lisa," his voice was smooth and calming, trying to coax her from pushing him further away.

Hearing that familiar raspy tone only further infuriated her. She shoved him backward, her palms pounding against his chest.

He took the blow with a grain of salt. He just continued to look at her, his eyes wrinkling at the sides as he strained to see her through the storm. His lips lay loosely in a line, and there was not an ounce of tension in his jaw. In fact, the tension seemed to have fled his body.

Seeing his shoulders relax and the understanding look on his face, Cuddy's expression began to falter. Her chest rose up and down exaggeratedly and her breathing seemed labored.

House just stared, watching as she tried desperately not to succumb to her own emotions. But her walls fell down. He watched as her seriousness and power became something entirely different in a fraction of a second. One second she stood erect, tall and self-assured, firm and unwavering. The next, her walls had come crumbling down, and she was in hysterics. It was what she had been feeling all along.

Her shoulders bucked up and down, and her knees gave out, sending her off balance. House stepped closer, letting her fall against him, watching her chest quake even more drastically than before. She pounded her fist against him, but soon have up, unable to control herself anymore. She had so much to cry out for that it first, the cries were silent. It was a loud, pitiful scream that freed itself first, and a roar of thunder boomed in the sky to accompany her.

House shuddered, his whole world shaken by her yelp, even more so than by the thunder. She was crying so hard that she could hardly breathe. It was the utterly distraught breathless cry that only children could achieve, yet there she was, a grown woman choking on her own tears and wriggling in House's arms.

She had lost it.

She was dying in his arms, and House's heart ached for her. Actually, it was more likely that it ached with her. They had finally come to an understanding without a single word spoken. It was their bond that gave him access to her heart, where her sorrow spread its roots. He needed not ask why she was breaking down, what pain she was feeling because he was feeling the same pain for the same purpose. And still he wished her pain on himself so he could help her bear her burden. He would feel the agony ten-fold if it meant hers would end. Seeing her falling to pieces was the most dreadful thing he had ever seen.

Another round of cries pierced the air and were only slightly muffled as she buried her face into his shoulder. "I know," his voice was just loud enough to hear over the rain, "I know." He clutched her back, pulling her closer by her waist. His arms instinctively coiled around her tiny frame, which fit naturally against him.

"I wanted you to be wrong," she confessed when she had calmed down just enough to speak. It was that phrase, those words that had been on her mind since the night she lost her son. She needed to come clean. She needed it to rain, for the tears to fall, the lightning to illuminate things, the thunder to wail.

As much as that question had been on his mind since it happened, he let it go. He pressed her head to him, then rubbed her back in slow circular motions. "I know," he responded, holding her up. She was hardly standing, and in that moment he was supporting her in more ways than one.

* * *

Author's Note: We were so close to ten last week! If I get ten this week, I'll post the next chapter on Thursday instead of Saturday. Do you like House better now? This week, I want to know which chapter is your favorite and why. I'd also like to note where the first few chapter names came from. Go back and read the chapter and pull up the lyrics. Tell me which chapter you think fits the chapter name the best.

Chapter 1: It Ends Tonight by The All-American Rejects

Chapter 2: Dark Blue by Jack's Mannequin

Chapter 3: Wonderwall by Oasis

Chapter 4: We Are by Tupelo Honey and Torn by One Direction

Chapter 5: Song for the Lonely by Cher

Chapter 6: Small Bump by Ed Sheeran

Chapter 7: Your Love is my Drug by Kesha

Enjoy :)


	18. With Ur Love

Author's Note:

Thank you all for your reviews. Personally, I think Small Bump fit the best out of those 7 chapters. Reread and listen to the lyrics and let me know what you think :) Here are the rest of the chapter titles.

Chapter 8: New Divide by Linkin Park

Chapter 9: Right Thru Me by Nicki Minaj

Chapter 10: Secrets by One Republic

Chapter 11: I Like it Rough by Lady Gaga

Chapter 12: Dare You to Move by Switchfoot

Chapter 13: Mr. Brightside by The Killers

Chapter 14-15: Poker Face by Lady Gaga

Chapter 16-17: Come Clean by Hilary Duff

Chapter 18: With Ur Love by Cher Lloyd ft Mike Posner

I think the most fitting name would be Dare You to Move or Come Clean. What do you think?

I'm so sad the story's come to an end, but please enjoy the final chapter!

Who wants a sequel?

* * *

Chapter 18: With Ur Love

Catharsis (n): the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions

Purge (v): to rid of whatever is impure or undesirable; cleanse; purify.

Emotion (n): an affective state of consciousness in which joy, sorrow, fear, hate, or the like, is experienced, as distinguished from cognitive and volitional states of consciousness.

There comes a time when holding it in is so much more painful than the probable consequence of letting it out, when the risk of remaining inside yourself is much riskier than verbalizing. Living inside your own mind is a dangerous practice/habit, for it isolates you, keeps you feeling like an individual entity rather than one of a race, a family, an ethnic/religious group. You are this single alien, wandering aimlessly, trying to find your way to a place where you belong, and trying to distinguish whether there really is a place where you can belong all the while. It feels like everyone is watching you, their gazes tearing your skin to shreds, their minds judging you as if it you were deserving.

This undefinable aloneness, doesn't rest, though. It eats at your insides, destroys your organs, so that the physical agony is much like the emotional, though not quite. It hollows you out, freezing the blood in your veins, sucking the oxygen from your lungs, and whispering thoughts in your ears of the pain, of the conspiracies against you, of your solitude.

When you've been hollowed enough, there is little left but your body, the exterior. But even that suffers. You might not sleep, though you pray God will allow for you to drift off into a realm of dreams, far from reality. The rings beneath your eyes become more an more profound by the day, and your skin looks as if it were coated with dust. It's only a matter of time before you are unable to eat, unable to stomach your morning coffee. It is then, when you're scowling with your coffee mug in hand, nauseated by its aroma, that you realize holding it in is much worse than letting it out.

So you purge, get rid of the feelings to relieve the emotional tension, to feel that catharsis, that relief you've been craving though you've denied it.

The rain had not ceased, though it had calmed considerably, the droplets resembling droplets once again rather than bullets. The sky was dotted with stars, which were just visible through the rain.

Cuddy shivered as her body heat flooded out from her head and feet and out into the brisk air. House held her tightly, his fingers pressed against the skin of her abdomen, his chin resting atop her already matted hair. As the moments passed along, she gradually regained her composure, and finally pulled away.

"You were right," she spoke breathily, sounding innocent, vulnerable. She sounded slightly congested and jittery, both results of her hysterics, "when you said that it was good I wasn't going to be a mother because I'd suck at it." Her neck craned upwards as she looked up into his eyes then back at his chest, "I do suck at it. I already messed it up," she gasped for a breath, her chest still palpitating as if there were not enough air.

House could hardly bear to maintain eye contact. Her sadness was so intense that he had only ever seen anguish so strong within himself. The whites of her eyes were streaked red, and her mouth curled into a frown, her muscles so accustom to the motion.

When he didn't respond, Cuddy gazed up at him again, and he stared off into the distance, "I was in pain. I shouldn't have said that."

"But you did," she tucked a wet tendril behind her ear, "and y-", she stuttered, "you were right."

His eyelids narrowed as if he were squinting to see something, searching for the proper words, "I was angry and I was off my meds," he caressed the scruff on his chin, "And," he hesitated, unable to form the words with his lips, "I was wrong."

She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her, speaking again before she could. "There are parents out there that don't give a damn. There are ass holes who have kids and don't want them, who neglect them and let them do whatever the hell they want. And then there's you."

Her eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, and she peered at him expectantly, with an expression so defenseless and beautiful, House nearly forgot how to form a coherent sentence. "You just want a child for yourself, so you can feed it, change its diapers, play with it, teach it right and wrong, send it to school, protect it from anyone who wants to hurt it," he nearly ran out of breath, "give it birthday presents and the best Halloween costumes. You want a child so you could one day buy it a car, help it get over a broken heart, cry at its graduation, and send it to college. And as if that wasn't enough, during and in between all these things, you'd love the kid."

The stupefied woman breathed deeply as her heart fluttered in her chest, not quite beating.

"You went through hell and back again for a kid that you never got a chance to meet. It's not your fault that this happened to you. If anyone in the world deserves a kid, it's you."

She choked back a sob as House plucked at her heart strings as if they were the strings upon a harp. A single teardrop lingered upon her cheek, inching slowly down her face. House kissed her then, joining their lips and bringing her as close to him as their souls were. The two had become one, their lips moving together effortlessly, as if they had been built strictly to kiss the other's.

It wasn't gone, the heartache. Their experience wasn't forgotten. No, they never would forget it, but they weren't alone anymore. They had one other. Two dysfunctional people, one dysfunctional relationship, but two people truly in love with one another.

When that mockingbird don't sing, it is those that matter, those who love you who will be there to silence your cries.

"I love you," Cuddy whispered as she pulled away, coming down from her tiptoes.

"I love you too," House uttered genuinely.

The couple walked toward the car, taking refuge from the rain which cascaded from the heavens down to Earth. "We have to get up for work in three hours," House retorted, his dark humor renewed.

"You could always take a day off," she proposed.

He raised an eyebrow and climbed in the car, sitting beside her.

"You're saying I should take the day off," he asked, turning the keys in the ignition.

"I'm saying we should take the day off."

"Whatever you say, Cuddles."


End file.
